The Project Gutenberg Etext of Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad

by John S. Adams

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Title: Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad

Author: John S. Adams

Release Date: November, 2003 [Etext #4669]

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TOWN & COUNTRY.

OR LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD, WITHIN & WITHOUT US.

BY JOHN S. ADAMS.

BOSTON:

1855.

CONTENTS.

SAVED BY KINDNESS
THE LOVE OF ELINORE
'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED
I CALL THEE MINE
THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON
VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT LAND
THE BEACON LIGHT
BEAR UP
A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING
THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN
THOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LONG AGO
DETERMINED TO BE RICH
THE HEAVEN-SENT, HEAVEN-RETURNED
FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS
FORGET ME NOT
WHAT IS TRUTH
THE HOMESTEAD VISIT
THE MARINER'S SONG
LOVE'S LAST WORDS
LIGHT IN DARKNESS
MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON
FREEDOM'S GATHERING
SONG OF THE BIRD
I CHANGE BUT IN DYING
HE IS THY BROTHER
THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK
ANGELINA
FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND
UNLEARNED TO LOVE
WHAT WAS IT?
LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING
A VISION OF REALITY
JEWELS OF THE HEART
LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND
POOR AND WEARY
THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT
NEW ENGLAND HOMES
LOVE THAT WANES NOT.
ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY
A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG
THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE
THE ADVENT OF HOPE
CHILD AND SIRE
A BROTHER'S WELCOME
THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION
A VISION OF HEAVEN
THERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YET
SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE
THE FUGITIVES
THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE
THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN
SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL
A SONG FROM THE ABSENT
TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME
TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN
THE SUMMER SHOWER
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON
TO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUET
TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN
I DREAMED OF THEE LAST NIGHT, LOVE
THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS
MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT
BETTER THAN GOLD
GONE AWAY
LINES TO MY MIFE
CHEER UP
TRUST THOU IN GOD
THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW
GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS
THE MISSION OF KINDNESS
A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN
JOY BEYOND
THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING
THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING
PRIDE AND POVERTY
WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART
OUR HOME
SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE
RETROSPECTION
NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER
THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP
WEEP NOT
RICH AND POOR
THE HOMEWARD BOUND
THE POOR OF EARTH
IF I DON'T OTHERS WILL
NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR
HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT
MORNING BEAUTY
THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS
BRIDAL SONGS
THE JUG AFLOAT
GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY
THE SPIRIT OF MAN
PAUSE AND THINK
LITTLE NELLY
WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON
REUNION
THE VILLAGE MYSTERY
THE WAYSIDE DEATH
BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE
NIGHT
NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED
THE DISINHERITED
THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL
SPRING
A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME
NOW CLOSE THE BOOK

TOWN AND COUNTRY.

SAVED BY KINDNESS.

A kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones.

CHAPTER I.

"THEN you are here!" said a stern, gruff voice, addressing a pale,
sickly-looking youth, whose frame trembled and whose lip quivered as
he approached one who sat at the side of a low pine table;--it was
his master, a man of about forty, of athletic form, and of power
sufficient to crush the feeble youth.

"Well," he continued, "if you are sure that you gave it to him, go
to bed; but mind you, whisper-breathe not the secret to a living
soul, on peril of your life! You may evade my grasp, but like blood
I will track you through life, and add a bitter to your every cup of
sweet."

The lad had no sooner left the room than a man entered, whose
carelessly arranged apparel and excited appearance indicated that
something of vast importance-at least, as far as he was
concerned-burthened his mind.

"Harry," he said, throwing himself upon a chair, "I fear we are

betrayed-discovered--completely used up."

"Discovered!" shouted the person addressed. "How? where? why?"

"It is so, friend Harry. The boy you sent made a sad error."

"Then murder the boy!" and, clutching a dagger, he motioned to leave

the room, and would have done so to plunge it in the bosom of the
lad, had not his informant interfered, and thus prevented him from
executing so rash and cruel an act.

"What!-I will-will do it!" he shouted, endeavoring to release

himself from the hands of the other.

"Never!" was the bold, unwavering response. "Move a step, and death
shall be thy doom. Seest thou that?" and the speaker drew from his
bosom a richly-mounted pistol.

"Doubtless thou art right," said Harry, in a more calm manner; "the
excitement of the moment urged me to desperation, and, if any but
you had arisen in my path, the glistening steel should have met his
heart. But, Bill, how,--I am confused, my eyes swim,--tell me, how are
we discovered? Must the last act in the great drama of our
fortune-making be crushed in the bud?-and who dare do it?"

"If you will restrain your indignation, I will tell you."

"A hard task, yet I will try."

"That answer will not do; you must say something more positive."

"Then I say, I will."

"Enough,--the boy Sim handed the note to the kitchen-girl."

"But, Bill, think you she suspected its contents?"

"That I cannot say, but she is inquisitive, and has been known to
unseal letters committed to her care, by some ingenious way she has
invented. She looked uncommonly wise when she handed it to me and
said, 'Mr. Bang, that's of no small importance to you.'"

"The deuce she did! I fear she deserves the halter," said Harry.

"What, with the h off?"

"No, there is too much Caudleism in her to make her worthy of that;
but this is no time for our jokes. Your suspicions are too true; but
how shall we act? what plans shall we adopt?"

"None, Harry, but this;--we must act as though we were the most
honest men on earth, and act not as though we suspected any of
suspecting us."

"O, yes, I understand you, Bill; we must not suspect anything wrong
in her."

"That's it," answered Bill, and, plunging his hand into his pocket,
he drew from thence a small scrap of greasy, pocket-worn paper, and
read a few words in a low whisper to his friend Harry. A nod from
the latter signified his approval. He returned the mysterious
memorandum to his pocket, and planting upon his head a poor, very
poor apology for a hat, swung his body round a few times on his
heel, and leaving the house; pushed open a small wicket-gate, and
entered the street. He hurriedly trudged along, heaping silent
curses upon the head of Harry's boy, the kitchen-girl, and sundry
other feminine and masculine members of the human family not yet
introduced to the reader.

Bold Bill gone, Harry sat for some considerable length of time
ruminating upon the strange turn affairs had taken, and indulging in
vague speculations upon whether the next would be as unfavorable;
and at this point of our story we will divulge somewhat of his
history.

Henry Lang had been in years past a man well-to-do in the world; he
was once a merchant respected for his strict integrity and
punctuality in business affairs; but by a false step, a making haste
to be rich, he was ruined. The great land speculation of '37 and
thereabout was the chief, and in fact the only cause of his
misfortune. On one day he could boast of his thousands, and no paper
held better credit than that signed or endorsed by him. The next,
the bubble broke, his fortune was scattered, his riches took to
themselves wings and flew away, his creditors, like vultures,
flocked around and speedily devoured what little remained of his
once large possessions. He was a man easily affected by such
occurrences, and they deeply wounded his sensitive feelings. What
should he do? He looked around upon those who once professedly loved
him; but no hand was extended, no heart sympathized with him in the
hour of trouble. He left his country, and with it a wife and one
child, a daughter, lovely, if not in personal appearance, in highly
virtuous and intellectual qualities, which, after all, will be
admitted to be of more value than that which time withers and
sickness destroys.

With a sad heart Mr. Lang left these and the spot of earth around
which many fond recollections clustered. After twenty months of
tedious wanderings, he returned, but he was a changed man; his
ambitious spirit had been crushed, all his hopes: had departed, and
he gave himself up to the fanciful freaks of a disordered mind.
Defeated in his honest endeavors to obtain a livelihood, he was now
seeking out dishonest ways and means to retrieve his fallen fortune.
He sought for those of a kindred spirit, nor was he long in finding
such; in a short time he became acquainted, and soon after
connected, with a gang of adventurous men, about six in number, who
by various fraudulent means were each amassing much wealth.

"And he deserted me in this my time of need! Can it be true that he

has gone? For him I would willingly have endured any privation. Did
he not know that my love was strong? Could he not believe me when I
said, that, as I joyed with him in his prosperity, I would mourn
with him in its reverse?-that I could ever be near to comfort and
console,--one with him at all times, under all circumstances?"

"Comfort yourself, dear mother!" said a calm voice, "Remember that

these trials are for our good, and that the sorrows of earth are but
to prepare us for the joys of heaven. Cheer up, mother! let those
thoughts rejoice thy heart! Despair not, but take courage!"

With such words did the daughter administer consolation to the

afflicted, when hearing that her husband had forsaken her and sailed
for a foreign port. It was indeed a heavy blow, and she felt it
severely. She could have endured the thought of having all her
earthly possessions taken from her,--but to be deserted, to be left
at such a time dependent upon the charities of the world for a
subsistence, such a thought she was not prepared to withstand.

The few words of Julia having been said, a deep silence for some
moments pervaded the room. She sat and gazed up into the face of her
mother, whose tears bore witness to the deep anguish of her soul.
The silence was interrupted by the rising of the latter, who for a
few moments paced the room, and then sank helplessly into a chair.
The attentive child sprang to her relief, a few neighbors were
called in, she was laid upon her bed. That night a severe attack of
fever came upon her; for many days her life was despaired of; but at
length a ray of hope cheered the solitude of the chamber of the
sick, and at the close of six weeks her health was in a great degree
restored.

"Time heals all wounds," is a common saying, true in some cases, but
not in all. Some wounds there are that sink deep in the heart,--their
pain even time cannot remedy, but stretch far into eternity, and
find their solace there. Others there are which by time are
partially healed;--such was that of Mrs. Lang. During her sickness,
many of the little incidents that before had troubled her passed
from her mind. She now yielded submissively to her sad allotment,
believing, as during her sickness she had often been told, that
afflictions come but for our own good, however paradoxical such a
statement might seem to be.

The kindness of a neighbor enabled her, with her daughter, to remove

their place of residence. This neighbor-a lady of moderate pecuniary
circumstances-furnished them with needle-work, the compensation for
which enabled them to obtain supplies necessary for a comfortable
living.

CHAPTER II.

For some time Mr. Henry Lang sat with his head resting upon his
hands, and with them upon the table. Deep silence prevailed, broken
only, at lengthy intervals, by the loud laugh following the merry
jest of some passer-by, or the dismal creaking of the swing-sign of
an adjacent tavern.

How long Mr. Lang might have remained in that position is not for us
to determine. But it would have been much longer, had not a loud rap
at the outer door awakened him from his drowsy condition.

He started at the sound, and, taking in his hand a dim-burning

candle, proceeded to answer the call. Opening the door, a man
closely enveloped in a large cloak and seal-skin cap, the last of
which hung slouchingly about his head and face, inquired, in a
gruff, ill-mannered voice, whether a person unfavorably known to the
police as "Bold Bill" had been there. Harry trembled, knowing his
interrogator to be one of the city watch; yet he endeavored to
conceal his fears and embarrassment by a forced smile, and remarked:

"That is indeed a strange name, and one of which I have never before
heard. Tell me what he has been about."

"Why do you think he has been about anything, or why think you I am
acquainted with his actions?" inquired the stranger, in a stern
voice, as though the supreme majesty of the law represented by him
was not to be spoken lightly of. His scrutinizing features relaxed
not in the least, but he looked our hero steadfastly in the face.

"By the appearance of your dress I judge you to be a watchman, and

as such I suppose you to be in search of that odd-named person on
account of his being suspected of having broken the law."

"You are right," answered the officer. "I am a watchman! The

authority invested in me is great. I trust I duly appreciate it. I
guard your dwelling when you are slumbering, unconscious of what
takes place around you."

"You are very kind," remarked Harry, suddenly interrupting him, and
speaking rather ironically than otherwise.

The watchman continued: "Life is to me nothing unless I can employ

it in doing good. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly."

"Will you walk in?" inquired Mr. Lang, as a sudden gust of wind
nearly extinguished his light.

"No, I thank you; that would be of no service to my fellow-men; and,

as I am in search of the man who committed the robbery, ten minutes
ago, upon Mr. Solomon Cash, the broker, I must-"

"Robbery!" exclaimed Harry, appearing perfectly astonished at the

thought. "O, the degeneracy of the nineteenth century,--the
sinfulness of the age!"

"Amen!" responded the officer; and, pulling his large, loose cloak
more closely about him, he made a motion to continue on in the
service of his fellow-men.

"But wait, my good man," said Harry. "Am I to suppose, from what you
said, that 'Bold Bill' is the perpetrator of this base crime?"

"Precisely so," was the laconic reply; and the man moved on in
execution of his benevolent designs.

"He should be brought to justice," said Harry, as he turned to

enter. No sooner, however, had he closed the door, than he burst
forth in a loud laugh. This was soon changed to seriousness, for he
became confident that his friend Bill was in danger. To shield him,
if guilty, from detection, and protect him, if innocent, was now his
great object. But where should he find him? That was a problem he
could not solve. The boy was sleeping soundly; he must awaken him,
he must go out in search of his friend.
With this intention, he dressed himself in a stout, heavy overcoat,
and, locking the door hurriedly, walked up the street. On he went,
as though his life depended upon whether he reached a certain square
at a certain time. He looked at nothing save some far-distant
object, from which, as it approached, he withdrew his eyes, and
fixed them on an object yet distant. Turning a corner, a collision
took place between him and another man, who appeared to be in as
much haste as himself. He was about to proceed, when he who had met
him so abruptly struck him very familiarly upon the shoulder,
saying, as he did so, "Harry, how are you?-good luck-tin-lots of
it-watch-haste."

The person thus addressed was not long in discovering who it was
that spoke to him, and from his words and actions that he had reason
to be in some haste. It was he for whom he was in search; and, being
aware that the nature of the case demanded despatch, he cordially
grasped his hand, and, without another word between them, they in a
short time reached the dwelling of Mr. Lang.

"What are the facts now?" inquired Harry, after having narrated the
incident that had occurred since he left, namely, the watchman's
visit.

"Then you think there is no danger in my staying here?" inquired

Bill.

"Not in the least," replied Harry; "for I positively asserted that

you was not here, and strongly intimated that I knew no person of
your name. Danger! there is none; so proceed, friend Bill,--but a
little wine."

Wine is an indispensable with all rogues; it nerves to lawlessness,

and induces them, when under its influence, to commit acts which in
their sober moments they would scorn to perform.

The wine-glass emptied, Bill proceeded in his narrative.

"When I left here, I started intending in a direct course to go

home. Musingly I walked along, cursing my fate, and several other
things, too numerous to mention, and speculating upon the probable
success of our scheme, till I arrived in front of the old broker's.
He was just putting up his iron-clamped shutters. I was on the
opposite side, at some distance, yet not so far but that I plainly
saw him enter and pack snugly away in his little black trunk divers
articles of apparently great worth. I carelessly jingled the last
change in my pocket, of value about a dollar or so; and the thought
of soon being minus cash nerved me to the determination of robbing
the broker. Thus resolved, I hid myself behind a pile of boxes that
seemed placed there on purpose, till I heard the bolt spring, and
saw the broker, with the trunk beneath his arm, walk away. As he
entered that dark passage, 'Fogg-lane,' I pulled my cap down over my
face, and dogged him, keeping the middle of the passage; and, seeing
a favorable opportunity, I sprang upon him from behind, and snatched
the box; then left him to his fate.

"I ran off as fast as my legs, urged on by the cry of 'stop thief,'
would carry me. Notwithstanding the speed at which I ran, I found
the crowd bearing down upon me; and, my hope almost failing, I had
resolved to give in and suffer the consequences, when, seeing a dark
lane, I ran into it, then dodged behind a pump. The crowd ran on; I
found I had escaped. Now, Harry, a friendly shake in honor of my
good luck."

"As you say," answered Harry, "and it is my humble opinion you are
not entirely free from change."

"Really, Harry, I don't know what the box contains; however, 't is
confounded heavy. It is full of gold or iron."

"My face for a scrubber, if small change is n't pretty much the
contents; the fourpences and dimes lie pretty near together, friend
Bill." "But," continued Harry, "'t is best to secrete yourself, box
and all, till the law dogs are silenced. If they come here, I will
throw them a bone; but hark!-"

The two remained silent; for the sound of approaching footsteps

momentarily grew more distinct. It sounded nearer, and now was in
front of the door.

"To the closet," whispered Harry; and in a moment Mr. Lang was the
only occupant of the room. He was right in his supposition; for the
door opened; and the same man, in the same cloak, with the same
consequential air, accompanied by others, entered abruptly, and
interrogated Harry rather closely. "Positively, I know nothing about
him," said Mr. Lang. This declaration seemed to have a wonderful
effect upon each of the officers. They gazed steadfastly at him,
then at each other, and their features indicated their belief in
what he said.

"Benevolent as I am," said the officer, "I must require a strict

search;--not that we suspect him to be on your premises, noble sir,
but my duty demands it."

The officer, having thus far declared what he thought to be his

duty, proceeded to its performance by pushing open the doors through
which egress could be had to the street, and all others. As chance
would have it, the right door was by them unobserved. But where was
the fugitive? He had been hurried into a closet. It was not after
the manner of most closets. It was about three feet square, at one
side of which was a door communicating with the cellar, through
which any person might pass, and from thence into the street. He
could not stand long and listen to the loud converse of those
without. He felt himself in danger if he remained, and determined
upon leaving the closet. So, having passed into the cellar, he
entered the street.

The night was dark; the hour late, and no persons stirring. Softly
he crept beneath the window, and, perceiving none in the room but
Harry, softly tapped the glass. Mr. Lang raised his arm, by which
signal Bill understood that he was aware of his having left the
closet. Then through back lanes, seldom pedestrianated, and narrow
passages, he wended his way, with his stolen treasure closely held
beneath the loose folds of his jacket. He passed on, till, reaching
a dark street, he beheld a dim light in a low oyster-cellar; he
entered. A black fellow was the proprietor, cook, &c. Bill asked for
lodgings.
"Well, massa, dem I 'ave; but I always take pay in advance from
gemmen."

Bill asked the price.

"Wall, 'tis fourpance on a chest, and threepance on de floor."

Mr. Bang availed himself of the best accommodations, and accepted

the chest. He stretched himself upon it, having settled the bill,
but slept little. His mind was continually roaming. Now he imagined
himself in the closet, with scarcely room to breathe, and an
officer's hand on the latch; now groping along untraversed paths,
till, falling into some hole, he awoke from his revery.

'T was near the dawn of day when, from his house, accompanied by the
boy, Mr. Lang passed out in search of Bill. A light rain was
falling, and in perspective he saw a dull, drizzly sort of a day,--a
bad air for a low-spirited individual. The "blues" are contagious on
such a day. Yet he strove to keep his spirits up, and to make the
best of a bad job.

As he passed by the office of the broker, he perceived a crowd, and

many anxious inquiries were heard respecting the robbery. It
appeared the broker had received but little injury, and was as busy
as any one in endeavoring to find out the rogue. Harry put on as
bold a face as possible, and inquired of the broker the
circumstances, which he very minutely narrated.

"Have you any suspicions of any one?" inquired Mr. Lang.

"Of no one," was the brief response.

"It would be very sad if the rascal could not be found," continued
Mr. Lang. "The gallows is too good for one who would make such a
cowardly attack, and treat with such baseness one who never harmed
his fellow."

"I am of your opinion," answered the broker; and the two, having
thus fully expressed their opinion, parted.

Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his companion. He entered
the cellar just as the latter had arisen from his chesty couch, and
a cordial grasp of the hand bore witness that friends had met.

Both were aware that the place in which they were was not of very
good repute, and made all possible haste to remove. But, to effect
this successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have a
change of dress.

He was making this change when half a dozen men unexpectedly

entered. "You are my prisoner," said one, catching hold of Mr. Lang
by the coat-collar. "Tropes, secure the other."

They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a little
search, discovered the broken box, and arrested the black man.

"For what am I arrested?" inquired Mr. Lang.

"That you will soon know," was the reply.

"But I demand an answer now. I will not move a step till I get it."

"What! what's that?" said a stout, rough-looking man, striking the

prisoner, and treating him more like a dog than what he was.

"I demand an answer to my inquiry. For what am I arrested?"

"He's a dangerous man," remarked another of the officers; "it's best

to put him in irons;" whereupon he drew from a capacious pocket a
pair of rusty manacles. Mr. Lang, and his two fellows in trouble,
found it best to coolly submit, and did so. Five minutes passed, and
the cold walls of a prison enclosed them.

CHAPTER III.

Daylight breaks, and the dwellers upon a thousand hills rejoice in

the first rays of the morning sun.

"Didst thou ever hear that promise, 'God will provide'? inquired a
pale, yet beautiful girl, as she bent over the form of a feverish
woman, in a small, yet neatly-furnished room.

"Yes," was the reply; "and he who allows not a sparrow to fall
unnoticed, shall he not much more care for us? Yes, Julia, God will
provide. My soul, trust thou in God!"

It was Mrs. Lang. The good lady who had befriended her was suddenly
taken ill, and as suddenly died. Mrs. Lang, with her daughter, left
the house, and, hiring a small room at an exorbitant rent,
endeavored, by the use of her needle, to live. She labored hard; the
morning's first light found her at her task, and midnight's silent
hour often found her there. The daughter too was there; together
they labored, and together shared the joys and sorrows of a worse
than widowed and orphaned state. Naturally of a feeble constitution,
Mrs. Lang could not long bear up under that labor, and fell. Then
that daughter was as a ministering angel, attending and watching
over her, and anticipating her every want. Long was she obliged to
labor to provide the necessaries of life; often working hard, and
receiving but ten to fifteen cents a day for that which, if paid for
as it should be, would have brought her a dollar. It was after
receiving her small pittance and having returned to her home, that
the words at the commencement of this chapter fell from her lips.
Her mother, with deep solicitude, inquired her success.

"He says he can get those duck trousers made for three cents, and
that, if I will not make them for that, he can give me no more work.
You know, mother, that I work eighteen hours of the twenty-four, and
can but just make two pair,--that would be but six cents a day."

"My child," said the mother, rising with unusual strength, "refuse
such a slavish offer. Let him not, in order to enrich himself, by
degrees take your life. Death's arrows have now near reached you. Do
not thus wear out your life. Let us die!"

She would have said more; but, exhausted by the effort, she sank
back upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, "Didst thou ever hear
that promise, 'God will provide'?"

The question had been put, and the answer given, when a slight rap
at the door was heard. Julia opened it; a small package was hastily
thrust into her hand, and the bearer of it hasted away. It was a
white packet, bound with white ribbon, and with these words, "Julia
Lang," legibly written upon it. She opened it; a note fell upon the
floor; she picked it up, and read as follows:

Enclosed you will find four five-dollar bills. You are in want; use
them, and, when gone, the same unknown hand will grant you more.

"Let me break now a secret to you which I believe it is my duty to

divulge. You will recollect that your father mysteriously abandoned
you. He is now in this city, in--street jail, awaiting his trial.
I am confident that he is innocent, and will be honorably acquitted;
and I am as confident that it needs but your presence and your kind
entreaty to bring him back once again to his family and friends. I
have spoken to him, but my words have had no effect except when I
spoke of his family. Then I could see how hard he strove to conceal
a tear, and that I had found a tender chord, that needed but your
touch to cause it to work out a reformatory resolution.

"I write because Mr. Lang was a friend of mine in his days of
prosperity. I know he has no heart for dishonesty; but, thinking
himself deserted by those who should cling to him, he madly resolved
to give himself up, and follow where fate should lead. Yours, truly,
"CHARLES B--.

N.B. Others have also spoken with him; but their appeals have been
in vain. If you will be at the corner of L--avenue and W--street,
at three o'clock to-day, a carriage will be in readiness to convey
you to his presence. C. B.

Anxiously did Mrs. Lang watch the features of her child as she stood
perusing the letter; and as she sat down with it unfolded,
apparently in deep thought, her inquisitiveness increased. She
inquired-she was told all. "Go," said she to her daughter, "and may
the blessings of Heaven attend you!"

Julia stood wondering. She had doubted before; she feared it might
be the scheme of some base intriguer; but now her doubts vanished,
and hope cheered her on.

Long seemed the intervening hours, and many were the predictions
made concerning the success of her mission; yet she determined to
go, in the spirit of Martin Luther, though every stone in the prison
should arise to persecute her.

The appointed hour came, and, letter in hand, she left her room, and
repaired to the spot. There she found a carriage; and the driver,
who, it appeared, was acquainted with her, inquired whether she
desired to go to--street jail. Replying in the affirmative, she
entered, and the carriage drove off. When she had reached the
street, and came in full view of the prison, her timidity almost
overcame her; but, recollecting the object she had in view, she
resisted a desire that involuntarily arose to return.

"Is the warden in?" inquired the driver of the gate-keeper.

"He is;--another feast for the lion, eh?" and the keeper, who had
more self-assurance than manners, having laughed at his own
nonsense, pulled a bell-cord, and the warden appeared.

"The gentleman who came this morning to see Mr. Lang wished me to
bring this young lady here, and introduce her to you as Mr. Lang's
daughter." Having said this, the hack-man let down the steps, and
aided her out. The gate-keeper retired into a sort of sentry-box,
and amused himself by peeping over the window-curtain, laughing very
immoderately when anything serious was said, and sustaining a very
grave appearance when anything having a shade of comicality
occurred.

The warden very politely conducted Julia into his office, and soon
after into the jail. It was a long building inside of a building,
with two rows of cells one above the other, each numbered, and upon
each door a card, upon which was written, in characters only known
to the officers of the prison, the prisoner's name, crime, term of
imprisonment, and general conduct whilst confined.

As Mr. Lang was waiting trial, he was not in one of these cells, but
in one of large dimensions, and containing more conveniences.

As they entered, he was seated at a small table, with pen, ink and
paper, engaged in writing. He did not at first recognize his child,
but in a moment sprang to her, and clasping her in his arms, said,
"My child."

Such a change in him needs some explanation.

After being committed to prison, his first thought was upon the
change of his condition from what it formerly was; and his first
resolution was to reform. He thought of the deep plots he and his
companion had laid to amass a fortune; but, supposing that the
latter would be convicted, and condemned to serve a long time in
confinement, he concluded that that scheme was exploded.

"Yet," thought he, "if there be none on earth I can call my

friends,--if my family forsake me (yet just would it be in them
should they reject my company),--of what avail would my reformation
be, except to a few dogging creditors, who would jeer and scoff at
me at every corner, and attempt to drive me back to my present
situation? It might be some satisfaction to them to see me return;
but what feelings would it arouse within me,--with what hatred would
I view mankind! No; if none will utter a kind word to me, let me
continue on; let the prison be my home, and the gallows my end,
rather than attempt to reform while those who were once my friends
stand around to drive me lack by scoffing remarks!"

Such were the sincere thoughts of Mr. Lang. He would return, but
none stood by to welcome him. A few had visited him, most of whom
had severely reflected upon his misdeeds. They opened a dark
prospect for him in the future. "Now," said they, "you must here
remain; receive retribution for your evil deeds, and a sad warning
to others not to follow in your steps, lest they arrive at the same
goal." Was there encouragement in this? Surely not; he deemed them
not the words of friendship, and he was right in his judgment.

"Why did you visit this dark prison?" inquired Mr. Lang.

"Because you are here, father!" was the artless reply.

"And could you forgive your father? How could you seek him, when he
forsook you?" Mr. Lang could not make this last observation without
becoming affected even to tears.

Julia seemed to take courage; new energies seemed to be imparted to

her. She felt an unseen influence at her side, and a holy calmness
resting upon her soul.

"Prison-walls cannot bar you from my heart, though in the worst

place on earth. Though friends laugh me to scorn when I seek your
presence, you are my father still, and ungrateful would I be did I
not own you as such!

"In thinking of the present, I do not forget the past; I remember

the days of old, the years in which we were made glad;--and you,
father, when free from these walls, will you not return again to
your family, and make home what it once was? To-day I will see Mr.
Legrange; he wants a clerk, and, by a little persuasion, I am
certain I can get you the situation. Will you not reform?"

She could say no more; yet her actions spoke louder than words could
possibly do, and her imploring attitude went home to the heart of
her parent. He, for the first time since the commencement of his
wayward course, felt that the hand of sympathy was extended to greet
him, should he make a motion to return. And why should he not grasp
it? He did. There, in that prison-cell, upon his knees, he promised
to repent and return.

"Pleasant residence, Miss!" said the gate-keeper, as our heroine

left the yard, and then laughed as though he had committed a pun
that would immortalize him from that time forth.

She noticed not his ill-mannered remark, but, reentering the

carriage, thought of nothing but the joy her mother would feel upon
learning her success, till the carriage stopped and the driver let
down the steps. Having related her adventure, she left her home with
the intention of seeing Mr. Legrange.

Mr. Legrange was a merchant on Cadiz wharf; he was wealthy, and as

benevolent as wealthy. Notices were often seen in the papers of
large donations from him to worthy institutions, sometimes one and
sometimes three thousand dollars. His fellow-men looked upon him as
a blessing to the age. There was no aristocracy in him; he did not
live like a prince in the costliest house in the city, but a small,
neat tenement was pointed out as his abode. Not only was he called
the "Poor Man's Friend," but his associate and companion. He did not
despise the poor man, and wisely thought that to do him good he must
live and be upon an equality with him.

Mr. Legrange had just opened an evening paper, when a light rap at
his counting-house door induced him to lay it aside. Opening it, a
young woman inquired if Mr. Legrange was in.

"That is my name," was the reply. "Good-morning, Miss Lang."

Julia was rejoiced that she was recognized. She had not spoken to
Mr. Legrange since her father's failure in business; previous to
that sad occurrence she had known him personally, yet she scarcely
thought he would know her now.

"This is a lovely day," said Mr. Legrange, handing her a chair.

"Your mother is well, I hope."

"As well as might be expected: she will recover fast, now."

"Indeed! What? Some glad news?"

"Yes, sir; father is in the city, and has reformed."

"Thank God for that!" said Mr. Legrange. "It is one of the blessings
of this life to hope for better days."

"He has reformed," continued Miss Lang, "yet he may be led back
unless he gets steady employment; and I heard that--"

"--that I want a clerk," said Mr. Legrange, anticipating her in her

remarks; "and," continued he, "your father is just the man I want. I
knew him in his better days, before a fatal misstep felled him to
the ground. Miss Lang, let your father call next Tuesday; to-morrow
I start on a journey, and shall not return till then."

With many sincere thanks, Julia left the room; her heart overflowed
with gratitude to the Giver of all things. She saw his hand and felt
his presence.

It was well that Mr. Legrange was about to leave the city, as Mr.
Lang's examination was to be had the next day, and Mrs. Lang and her
daughter confidently expected he would be acquitted.

The morrow came; the examination began and terminated as they had
expected. William Bang was remanded back to prison to await his
trial for robbery. Mr. Lang was acquitted, and, joining a company of
friends whom Julia had collected, left for the residence of his
family.

What a meeting was that! Angels could but weep for joy at such a
scene, and drop their golden harps to wipe away their tears of
gladness. Long had been their separation. What scenes had the
interval disclosed! And how changed were all things! She was in
health when he left, but now in sickness; yet it was not strange.

That day was the happiest he had spent for many months, and he
rejoiced that an angel of light, his daughter, had sought him out.
She had been, indeed, a ministering spirit of good to him, and in
the happy scene then around her she found her reward,--O, how
abundant!

With a light and joyous step did Henry Lang repair to the store of
Mr. Legrange. The sun's rays were just peering over the house-tops,
and he thought that he, like that sun, was just rising from
degradation to assume new life, and put forth new energy.

We need not lengthen out our the by narrating what there ensued. He
that day commenced his clerkship, and to this day holds it. He often
received liberal donations from his employer in token of his regard
for him, and by way of encouraging him in his attempts to regain his
lost fortune.

It was on a December evening that a family circle had gathered

around their fireside. The wild wind whistled furiously around, and
many a poor wight lamented the hard fate that led him abroad to
battle the storm. "Two years ago this night," said the man, "where
was I? In an obscure house, planning out a way to injure a
fellow-man! Yea, would you believe it? the very man who has since
been my benefactor,--my employer!"

The door-bell rang, and the conversation was abruptly terminated.

In a few minutes none other than Mr. Legrange entered; he received a

hearty welcome, and was soon engaged in conversation.

"Mr. Lang," said he, as he was about to depart, "your daughter

remembers receiving an anonymous letter
not say it to please my own vanity, but
it, and sent it by my son. I thought of
you had a friend on earth who cared for
been the humble instrument in effecting
signed 'Charles B--.' I do
I ordered my clerk to write
you when you little thought
you, and rejoice that I have
your reformation."

"Here," he continued, handing him a paper, "this is the deed of a

house on--street, valued at eight thousand dollars; accept it as a
present from me to you and your family, and remember this, that a
kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones. It was that
which saved you, and by that you may save others. Good-evening; I
will see you at the store tomorrow."

Having said this, he left, waiting not to receive the thanks that
grateful hearts desired to render him.

And now, reader, our story is ended. If you have followed us thus
far, neglect not to receive what we have faintly endeavored to
inculcate; and ever remember, while treading life's thorny vale,
that "a kind word is of more value than gold or precious stones."

THE LOVE OF ELINORE.

SHE stood beside the sea-shore weeping,

While above her stars were keeping
Vigils o'er the silent deep;
While all others, wearied, slumbered,
She the passing moments numbered,
She a faithful watch did keep.
Him she loved had long departed,
And she wandered, broken-hearted,
Breathing songs he loved to hear.
Friends did gather round to win her,
But the thoughts that glowed within her
Were to her most fond and dear.
In her hand she held bright flowers,
Culled from Nature's fairest bowers;
On her brow, from moor and heath,
Bright green leaves and flowers did cluster,
Borrowing resplendent lustre
From the eyes that shone beneath.
Rose the whisper, "She is crazy,"
When she plucked the blooming daisy,
Braiding it within her hair;
But they knew not, what of gladness
Mingled with her notes of sadness,
As she laid it gently there.
For her loved one, ere he started,
While she still was happy-hearted,
Clipped a daisy from its stem,
Placed it in her hair, and told her,
Till again he should behold her,
That should be her diadem.
At the sea-side she was roaming,
When the waves were madly foaming,
And when all was calm and mild,
Singing songs,--she thought he listened,--
And each dancing wave that glistened
Loved she as a little child.
For she thought, in every motion
Of the ceaseless, moving ocean,
She could see a friendly hand
Stretched towards the shore imploring,
Where she stood, like one adoring,
Beckoning to a better land.
When the sun was brightly shining,
When the daylight was declining,
On the shore she'd watch and wait,
Like an angel, heaven-descending,
'Mid the ranks of mortals wending,
Searching for a missing mate.
Years passed on, and when the morning
Of a summer's day gave warning
Of the sweets it held in store,
By the dancing waves surrounded,
Like a fairy one she bounded
To her lover's arms once more.
Villagers thus tell the story,
And they say a light of glory
Hovereth above the spot
Where for days and years she waited,
With a love all unabated,
And a faith that faltered not.
There's a stone that is uplifted,
Where the wild sea-flowers have drifted;
Fonder words no stone o'er bore;
 And the waves come up to greet them,
Seeming often to repeat them,
While afar their echoes roar-
"DEATHLESS LOVE OF ELINORE."

'TIS SWEET TO BE REMEMBERED.

'T IS sweet to be remembered

In the turmoil of this life,
While toiling up its pathway,
While mingling in its strife,
While wandering o'er earth's borders,
Or sailing o'er its sea,--
'T is sweet to be remembered
Wherever we may be.
What though our path be rugged,
Though clouded be our sky,
And none we love and cherish,
No friendly one is nigh,
To cheer us in our sorrow,
Or share with us our lot,--
'T is sweet to be remembered,
To know we're not forgot.
When those we love are absent
From our hearth-stone and our side,
With joy we learn that pleasure
And peace with them abide;
And that, although we're absent,
We're thought of day by day;--
'T is sweet to be remembered
By those who are away.
When all our toils are ended,
The conflict all is done,
And peace, in sweetest accents,
Proclaims the victory won;
When hushed is all the tumult,
When calmed is all the strife,
And we, in patience, meekly
Await the end of life:
Then they who, when not present,
In spirit yet were near,
And, as we toiled and struggled,
Did whisper in our ear,
"'Tis sweet to be remembered,
And thou art not forgot,"
If fortune smile upon us,
Shall share our happy lot.
I CALL THEE MINE.

YES, ever such I'll call thee, will ever call thee mine,
And with the love I bear thee a wreath of poesy twine;
And when the stars are shining in their bright home of blue,
Gazing on them, thou mayest know that I like them are true.
Forget thee! no, O, never! thy heart and mine are one.
How can the man who sees its light forget the noonday sun?
Or he who feels its genial warmth forget the orb above;
Or, feeling sweet affection's power, its source-another's love?
Go, ask the child that sleepeth upon its mother's breast
Whether it loves the pillow on which its head doth rest;
Go, ask the weary mariner, when the dangerous voyage is o'er,
Whether he loves the parent's smile that meets him at the door:
But ask not if I love thee when I would call thee mine,
For words are weak to tell thee all, and I the task resign;
But send thy spirit out for love, and when it finds its goal,
'T will be encircled and embraced within my deepest soul.

THE OLD TREE AND ITS LESSON.

THERE is a story about that old tree; a biography of that old

gnarled trunk and those broad-spread branches.

Listen.

Many, very many years ago,--there were forests then where now are
cities, and the Indian song was borne on that breeze which now bears
the sound of the Sabbath bell, and where the fire of the work-shop
sends up its dense, black smoke, the white cloud from the Indian's
wigwam arose,--yes, 't was many years ago, when, by the door of a
rough, rude, but serviceable dwelling, a little boy sat on an old
man's knee. He was a bright youth, with soft blue eyes, from which
his soul looked out and smiled, and hair so beautiful that it seemed
to be a dancing sunbeam rather than what it really was.

The old man had been telling him of the past; had been telling him
that when he was a child he loved the forest, and the rock, and the
mountain stream.

Then he handed the lad a small, very small seed, and, leading him a
short distance, bade him make a small hole in the ground and place
the seed within it. He did so. And the old man bent over and kissed
his fair brow as he smoothed the earth above the seed's
resting-place, and told him that he must water it and watch it, and
it would spring up and become a fair thing in his sight.

'Twas hard for the child to believe this; yet he did believe, for he
knew that his friend was true.

Night came; and, as he lay on his little couch, the child dreamed of
that seed, and he had a vision of the future which passed with the
shades of the night.

Morning dawned, and he hastened to water and to watch the spot where
the seed was planted.

It had not come up; yet he believed the good old man, and knew that
it would.

All day long he was bending over it, or talking with his aged
companion about the buried seed.

A few days passed, then a little sprout; burst from the ground; and
the child clapped his hands, and shouted and danced.

Daily it grew fairer in the sight of the child, and rose higher and
higher. And the old man led him once more to the spot, and told him
that even so would the body of his little sister rise from the grave
in which a short time before it hid been placed, and, rising higher
and higher, it would never cease to ascend.

The old man wept; but the child, with his tiny white hand, brushed
away his tears, and, with child-like simplicity, said that if his
sister arose she would go to God, for God was above.

Then the mourner's heart was strengthened, and the lesson he would
have taught the child came from the child to him, and made his soul
glad.

A few weeks passed, and the old man died.

The child wept; but, remembering the good friend's lesson, he wiped
away his tears, and wept no more; for the seed had already become a
beautiful plant, and every day it went upward, and he knew that,
like that, his sister and his good friend would go higher and higher
towards God.

Days, weeks, months, years passed away. The plant had grown till it
was taller than he who had planted it.

Years fled. The child was no more there, but a young man sat beneath
the shade of a tree, and held a maiden's hand in his own. Her head
reclined on his breast, and her eyes upturned met the glances of his
towards her, and they blended in one.

"I remember," said he, "that when I was young a good old man who is
now in heaven, led me to this spot, and bade me put a little seed in
the earth. I did so. I watched the ground that held it, and soon it
sprang up, touched by no hand, drawn forth, as it would seem, from
its dark prison by the attractive power of the bright heaven that
shone above it. See, now, what it has become! It shades and shelters
us. God planted in my heart a little seed. None but he could plant
it, for from him only emanates true love. It sprang up, drawn forth
by the sunlight of thy soul, till now thou art shadowed and
sheltered by it."

There was silence, save the rustle of the leaves as the branches
bowed assent to the young man's words.

Time drove his chariot on; his sickle-wheels smote to earth many
brave and strong, yet the tree stood. The winds blew fiercely among
its branches; the lightning danced and quivered above and around it;
the thunder muttered forth its threatenings; the torrent washed
about its roots; yet it stood, grew strong and stately, and many a
heart loved it for its beauty and its shade.

The roll of the drum sounded, and beneath a tree gathered crowds of
stalwart men. There was the mechanic, with upturned sleeves and
dusty apron; the farmer, fanning himself with a dingy straw hat; the
professional man and trader, arguing the unrighteousness of
"taxation without representation."

Another roll of the drum, and every head was uncovered as a young
man ascended a platform erected beneath the tree. In a soft, low
voice, he began. As he proceeded, his voice grew louder, and his
eloquence entranced his auditors.

"Years ago," said he, "there were an old man and a young child. And
the child loved the man, and the man loved the child, and taught him
a lesson. He took him by the hand, and, leading him aside, gave him
a seed and told him to plant it. He did so. It sprang up. It became
mighty. Independent it stood, sheltering all who came unto it. That
old man went home; but here stands the child, and here the tree,
great and mighty now, but the child has not forgotten the day when
it was small and weak. So shall the cause we have this day espoused
go on; and though, to-day, we may be few and feeble, we shall
increase and grow strong, till we become an independent nation, that
shall shelter all who come unto it."

The speaker ceased, and immediately the air resounded with loud
shouts and huzzas.

The struggle for independence came. Victory ensued. Peace rested

once more upon all the land, But not as before. It rested upon a
free people. Then, beneath that same tree, gathered a mighty host;
and, as oft as came the second month of summer, in the early part of
it the people there assembled, and thanked God for the lesson of the
old tree.

An old man lay dying. Around his bedside were his children and his
children's children.

"Remove the curtain," said he. "Open the window. Raise me, and let
re see the sun once more."

They did so.

"See you yonder tree? Look upon it, and listen. I was a child once,
and I knew and loved an old man; and he knew me and loved me, and he
led me aside, placed in my hand a tiny seed, and bade me bury it in
the earth, and I did so. Night came, with its shade and its dew;
day, with its sunshine and its showers. And the seed sprang
up,--but the old man died. Yet, ere he went, he had taught me the
lesson of that seed, which was, that those who go down to the earth
like that, will arise, like that, towards heaven. You are looking
upon that tree which my friend planted. Learn from it the lesson it
hath taught me."

The old man's task was performed, his life finished, and the
morrow's light lit the pathway of many to his grave. They stood
beneath the shadow of that tree; and deeply sank the truth in every
heart as the village pastor began the burial service and read, "I am
the resurrection and the life."

VOICES FROM THE SPIRIT-LAND.

IN the silence of the midnight,

When the cares of day are o'er,
In my soul I hear the voices
Of the loved ones gone before;
And they, words of comfort whispering,
Say they'll watch on every hand,
And my soul is cheered in hearing
Voices from the spirit-land.
In my wanderings, oft there cometh
Sudden stillness to my soul;
When around, above, within it
Rapturous joys unnumbered roll.
Though around me all is tumult,
Noise and strife on every hand,
Yet within my soul I list to
Voices from the spirit-land.
Loved ones who have gone before me
Whisper words of peace and joy;
Those who long since have departed
Tell me their divine employ
Is to watch and guard my footsteps,--
O! it is an angel band!
And I love, I love to list to
Voices from the spirit-land.

THE BEACON-LIGHT.
DIMLY burns the beacon-light
On the mountain top to-night;
Faint as whisper ever fell,
Falls the watcher's cry,--"All's well;"
For the clouds have met on high,
And the blast sweeps angry by;
Not a star is seen this night,--
God, preserve the beacon-light!
Lo! a man whom age doth bow
Wanders up the pathway now;
Wistfully his eye he turns
To the light that dimly burns;
And, as it less glow doth shed,
Quicker, quicker is his tread;
And he prays that through the night
God may keep the beacon-light.
Far below him, rocks and waves
Mark the place of others' graves;
Other travellers, who, like him,
Saw the beacon-light burn dim.
But they trusted in their strength
To attain the goal at length;--
This old traveller prays, to-night,
"God, preserve the beacon-light!"
Fainter, fainter is its ray,--
Shall its last gleam pass away?
Shall it be extinguished quite?
Shall it burn, though not as bright?
Fervently goes up his prayer;
Patiently he waiteth there,
Trusting Him who doeth right
To preserve the beacon-light.
Look you now! the light hath burst
Brighter than it was at first;
Now with ten-fold radiance glows,
And the traveller homeward goes.
As the clouds grow darker o'er him,
Brighter grows the light before him;
God, who doeth all things right,
Hath preserved the beacon-light.
Thus upon the path we tread
God a guiding light hath shed;
Though at times our hearts are weary,
Though the path we tread is dreary,
Though the beacon's lingering ray
Seems as if 't would pass away,--
Be our prayer, through all the night,
"God, preserve the beacon-light!"
Threatening clouds may gather o'er us,
Countless dangers rise before us:
If in God we seek for strength,
He will succor us at length:
He his holy light will send,
To conduct us to the end.
Trust thy God, through day and night,
He'll preserve thy beacon-light.
BEAR UP.

BEAR up, bear up, though Poverty may press thee,

There's not a flower that's crushed that does not shed,
While bowing low, its fragrance forth to bless thee,
At times, more sweet than when it raised its head;

When sunlight gathered round it,

When dews of even crowned it,

By nature nursed, and watched, and from its bounty fed
Bear up, bear up! O, never yield nor falter!
God reigneth ever, merciful and just;
If thou despairest, go thou to his altar,
Rest on his arm, and in his promise trust.

There Hope, bright Hope, will meet thee;

There Joy, bright Joy, shall greet thee;

And thou shalt rise to thrones on high from out the dust.

A WELCOME SONG TO SPRING.

SHOUT a welcoming to Spring!

Hail its early buds and flowers!
It is hastening on to bring
Unto us its joyous hours.
Birds on bough and brake are singing,
All the new-clad woods are ringing;
In the brook, see Nature flinging
Beauties of a thousand dyes,

As if jealous of the beauties

Mantling the skies.
Hail to Beauty! Hail to Mirth!
All Creation's song is gladness;
Not a creature dwells on earth
God would have bowed down in sadness!
Everything this truth is preaching,
God in all his works is teaching,
As if man by them beseeching
 To be glad, for he doth bless;

And to trust him, for he's mighty

In his tenderness.

THE HOPE OF THE FALLEN.

CHAPTER I.

IT was at the close of a beautiful autumnal day that Edward Dayton

was to leave the place of his nativity. For many years he had looked
forward, in joyous anticipation, to the time when he should repair
to the city, and enter upon the business of life. And now that that
long looked-for and wished-for day had arrived, when he was to bid
an adieu to the companions of his youth, and to all the scenes of
his childhood, it was well for him to cast a retrospective glance;
and so he did.

Not far distant, rearing its clear white steeple far above the
trees, stood the village church, up the broad, uncarpeted aisle of
which he had scores of times passed; and, as the thought that he
might never again enter those sacred walls came to his mind, a tear
glistened in his eye that he could not rudely wipe away.

Next was the cot of the pastor. He had grown old in the service of
his Master, and the frosts of nearly three-score winters rested
their glory upon his head. All loved and respected him, for with
them he had wept, and with them he had rejoiced. Many had fallen
around him; withered age and blooming youth he had followed to the
grave; yet he stood forth yet, and, with clear and musical voice,
preached the truths of God.

An old gray building, upon whose walls the idler's knife had carved
many a rude inscription, was the village school. There, amid those
carvings, were seen the rough-hewn initials of many a man now
"well-to-do in the world." Some, high above the rest, seemed as
captains, and almost over-shadowed the diminutive ones of the little
school-boy, placed scarce thirty inches from the ground.

Edward was a pet among the villagers. He had taken the lead in all
the frolickings, and many a bright-eyed lass would miss his
presence, and loud, clear laugh, at the coming "huskings."

Young and old reluctantly bade him "good-by," and, as the stage
wound its circuitous way from the village, from many a heart
ascended a prayer that He who ruleth over all would prosper and
protect him.

"Good luck to him, God bless him!" said dame Brandon, as she entered
the house. "He was always a kind, well-meant lad," she continued,
"and dame Brandon knows no evil can befall him; and Emily, my dear,
you must keep your eye on some of the best fruit of the orchard, for
he will be delighted with it, and much the more so if he knows your
bright eyes watched its growth and your hands gathered it."

These words were addressed to a girl of seventeen, who stood at an

open window, in quite a pensive mood. She seemed not to hear the
remark, but gazed in the direction the stage had passed.

The parents of Edward had died when he was quite young, and he,
their only child, had been left to the care and protection of dame
Brandon; and well had she cared for him, and been as a mother to the
motherless.

"Now, Emi', don't fret! Edward won't forget you. I've known him
long; he has got a heart as true as steel."

'T was not this that made her sad. She had no fears that he would
forget his Emi', but another thought pressed heavily on her mind,
and she said,

"But, aunty, city life is one of danger. Temptations are there we

little think of, and stronger hearts than Edward's have quailed
beneath their power."

"Well done!" quoth Mrs. B., looking over her glasses; "a sermon,
indeed, quite good for little you. But girls are timid creatures;
they start and are frightened at the least unusual sound." She
assumed a more serious manner, and, raising her finger, pointing
upwards, said, "But know you not there is a Power greater than that
of which you speak?"

Emily seemed to be cheered by this thought. She hummed over a

favorite air, and repaired to the performance of her evening duties.

Emily Brandon was a lovely creature, and of this Edward Dayton was
well aware. He had spent his early days with her. His most happy
hours had been passed in her company. Together they had frolicked
over the green fields, and wandered by their clear streams. Hours
passed as minutes when in each other's company; and, when separated,
each minute seemed an hour.

Now, for the first time, they were separated; and ever and anon, as
she passed about at her work, she cast a fitful glance from the
window, as if it were possible he might return.

How she wished she could have gone with him, to gently chide when
sinners should entice, and lead him from error's path, should gay
temptation lure him therein! She was young in years, yet old in
discretion; and had a heart that yearned for the good of all.

"Well, aunt," said she, "I hope good luck will betide him, but sad
thoughts will come when I think of what he will have to bear up
under."

"O, hush!" said the old lady; "simple girls have simple stories."
CHAPTER II.

It was a late hour in the evening that the coach entered the
metropolis. Railroads were not then in vogue, and large
baggage-waggons, lumbering teams and clumsy coaches, were drawn by
two or more horses, over deep-rutted roads, and almost endless
turnpikes.

The bells had-rang their nine o'clock peal; most of the stores were
closed; the busy trader and industrious mechanic had gone to their
respective homes, and left their property to faithful watchers,
whose muffled forms moved slowly through the streets of the great
city.

Not all had left their work; for, by the green and crimson light
that streamed from his window, and served to partially dissipate the
darkness, it was seen that he of pestle and mortar labored on, or,
wearied with his labor, had fallen asleep, but to be awakened by the
call of some customer, requesting an antidote for one of the many
"ills which flesh is heir to."

Other open places there were, whose appearance indicated that they
were bar-rooms, for at their windows stood decanters filled with
various-colored liquids. Near each of these stood a wine-glass in an
inverted position, with a lemon upon it; yet, were not any of these
unmistakable signs to be seen, you would know the character of the
place by a rumseller's reeling sign, that made its exit, and,
passing a few steps, fell into the gutter.

In addition to these other signs, were seen scattered about the

windows of these places, in characters so large that he who ran
might read, "Bar-room," "Egg-pop," "N. E. Rum," etc.

Those were the days of bar-room simplicities. "Saloons" were not

then known. The refined names which men of the present day have
attached to rum, gin and brandy, were not then in use. There were no
"Wormwood-floaters" to embitter man's life, and Jewett had not had
his "fancy."

The coach rolled on, and in a short time Edward was safely ensconced
in a neatly-furnished room in a hotel known as "The Bull's Horn." It
was indeed a great disadvantage to him that he came to a city in
which he was a total stranger. He had no acquaintance to greet him
with a friendly welcome; and the next day, as he was jostled by the
crowd, and pushed aside by the hurried pedestrian, he realized what
it was to be a stranger in a strange land, and an indescribable
sensation came upon him, known only to those who have been placed in
similar circumstances.

He looked around,--strange forms met his view. No one greeted him, no

hand of friendship was held forth to welcome him. All the world
seemed rushing on for something, he knew not what; and, disheartened
at the apparent selfishness that pervaded society, he returned to
his room, and wished for the quietness of his own sweet village, the
companionship of his own dear Emi'.

The landlord of the tavern at which our hero had housed himself was
a stout, burly man, and quite communicative. From him Edward learned
much of importance. Mr. Blinge was his name. He was an inveterate
smoker, and his pet was a little black pipe, dingy and old, and by
not a few deemed a nuisance to "The Bull's Horn." This he held
between his teeth, and, seating himself behind his bar, puffed away
on the high-pressure principle.

Edward had not been many minutes in his room before Mr. Blinge
entered with his pet in his mouth, hoped he did n't intrude,
apologized, and wished him to walk below, saying that by so doing he
might become acquainted with some "rare souls."

By "below" was meant a large, square room, on the ground floor, of

dimensions ample enough to hold a caucus in. By some it was called a
"bar-room," by others the "sitting-room," and others the
"gentlemen's parlor."

Entering, Edward encountered the gaze of about twenty individuals.

Old gentlemen with specs looked beneath them, and young gentlemen
with papers looked above them. A young man in white jacket and green
apron was endeavoring to satisfy the craving appetites of two
teamsters, who were loudly praising the landlord's brandy, and
cursing the bad state of the roads in a manner worthy of "our army
in Flanders."

One young man, in particular, attracted the attention of our hero.

He was genteelly dressed, and possessed an air of dignity and
self-command, that would obtain for him at once the good will of
any. Edward was half inclined to believe his circumstances to be
somewhat similar to his own. He was reading an evening paper, but,
on seeing our hero enter, and judging from his manner that he was a
stranger, laid it aside, and, politely addressing himself to him,
inquired after his health.

The introduction over, they engaged in conversation. The young man

seemed pleased in making his acquaintance, and expressed a hope that
a friendship so suddenly formed might prove lasting and beneficial
to each.

"I also am from the country," said he, after Edward had informed him
of his history, "and, like you, am in search of employment. Looking
over the evening paper, I noticed an advertisement of a concern for
sale, which I thought, as I read, would be a capital chance to make
a fortune, if I could find some one to invest in it with me. I will
read it to you.

For SALE.-The stock and stand of a Confectioner, with a good

business, well established. One or two young men will find this a
rare opportunity to invest their money advantageously. For other
particulars inquire at No. 7 Cresto-st.

"Now, I tell you what," said the young man, before Edward had an
opportunity to utter a word, "it is a fine chance. Why, Lagrange
makes enough on his wines and fancy cordials to clothe and feed a
regiment. Just pass there, some evening, and you will see a perfect
rush. Soda-water, ice creams, and French wines, are all the rage,
and Lagrange is the only man in this city that can suit the bon
ton!"

"You half induce me to go there," said Edward. "How far is it from

this place?"

"Not far, but it is too late; to-morrow morning we will go there.

Here, take my card-Othro Treves is my name; you must have known my
father; a member of Congress for ten years, when he died;--rather
abused his health-attended parties at the capital-drank wine to
excess,--took a severe cold-fell ill one day, worse the next, sick
the next, and died soon after. Wine is bad when excessively indulged
in; so is every good thing."

Edward smiled at this running account of his new-formed

acquaintance, and, bidding him "good-night," betook himself to his
chamber, intending to accompany Othro to the confectioner's in the
morning.

CHAPTER III.

The next morning the sun shone bright and clear in a cloudless sky,
and all were made joyous by its gladsome rays.

Edward was awakened at an early hour by the departure or

preparations to depart, of the two teamsters, who, having patronized
rather freely the young man in white jacket and green apron, were in
a delightful mood to enjoy a joke, and were making themselves quite
merry as they harnessed up their sturdy horses.

It was near nine when Othro and Edward found themselves on the way
to the confectioner's. Edward was glad on account of finding one
whom he thought he could trust as a friend, and congratulated
himself on his good luck.

Near the head of Cresto-street might have been seen, not many years
since, over the door of a large and fashionable store, a sign-board
bearing this inscription: "M. Lagrange, Confectioner and Dealer in
Wines and Cordials." We say it was "large and fashionable;" and
those of our readers who recollect the place of which we speak will
testify to the truth of our assertion.

Its large windows, filled with jars of confectionary and preserves,

and with richly-ornamented bottles of wine, with the richest pies
and cake strewed around, presented a showy and inviting appearance,
and a temptation to indulge, too powerful to resist, by children of
a larger growth than lisping infants and primary-school boys. Those
who daily passed this store looked at the windows most wistfully;
and this was not all, for, at their weekly reckonings, they found
that several silver "bits" had disappeared very mysteriously during
the previous seven days.
To this place our hero and his newly-formed acquaintance were now
hastening. As they drew near, quite a bevy of ladies made their exit
therefrom, engaged in loud conversation.

"Lor!" said one, "it is strange Lagrange advertised to sell out."

"Why, if I was his wife," said another, "I'd whip him into my
traces, I would; an' he shouldn't sell out unless I was willin',--no,
he shouldn't! Only think, Miss Fitzgabble, how handy those wines
would be when one has a social soul step in!"

"O yes," replied Miss Fitzgabble, "and those jars of lozenges! How
enchantingly easy to elevate the lid upon a Sabbath morn, slip in
one's hand, and subtract a few! How I should smell of sassafras, if
I was Mrs. Lagrange!"

The ladies passed on, and were soon out of hearing. Edward and his
companion entered the store, where about a dozen ladies and
gentlemen were seated, discussing the fashions, forging scandal, and
sipping wine.

Mr. Lagrange was actively engaged when the two entered; but, seeing
them, and supposing them to have called on the business for which
they actually had called, he called to one of the attendants to fill
his place, and entered into conversation with Messrs. Dayton and
Treves, which in due time was terminated, they agreeing to call
again the next day.

First impressions are generally the most lasting. Those Edward and
Othro received during their visit and subsequent conversation were
favorable to the purchase.

On their return they consulted together for a long time, and finally
concluded to go that day, instead of waiting till the next, and make
Mr. Lagrange an offer of which they had no doubt he would accept.

Mr. Lagrange's chief object in selling out was that he might

disengage himself from business. He had been a long time in it; he
was getting somewhat advanced in life, and had accumulated
sufficient to insure him against want, and he deemed it best to step
out, and give room to the young-an example worthy of general
imitation.

That the business was profitable there could be no doubt. As Othro

had said, the profit on the wines was indeed immense.

On pleasant evenings the store was crowded; and, as it was filled

with the young, gay, and fashionable of wealthy rank, not much
difficulty was experienced in obtaining these large profits.

The return of the young men was not altogether unexpected by Mr.
Lagrange. He was ready to receive them. He set before them his best
wines. They drank freely, praised the wine, and extolled the store,
for they thought it admirably calculated to make a fortune in.

Mr. Lagrange imparted to them all the information they desired. They
made him an offer, which he accepted, after some thought; and
arrangements were entered into by which Messrs. Dayton and Treves
were to take possession on the morning of the following Monday.
CHAPTER IV.

No one commences business without the prospect of success. Assure a

man he will not succeed, and he will be cautious of the steps he
takes, if, indeed, he takes any.

If he does not expect to gain a princely fortune; he expects to earn

a comfortable subsistence, and, at the same time, accumulate enough
to shelter him in a rainy day, and be enabled to walk life's busy
stage in comfort and respectability, and, as occasion may demand,
relieve the wants of his less fortunate brethren.

For this all hope, yet the experience of thousands shows that few,
very few, ever realize it. On the contrary, disappointment, in its
thousand malignant forms, starts up on every hand; yet they struggle
on, and in imagination see more prosperous days in the future. Thus
they hope against hope, till the green sod covers their bodies, and
they leave their places to others, whilst the tale is told in these
few words: "They lived and died."

The next Monday the citizens were notified, by the removal of his
old sign, that Mr. Lagrange had retired from business. During the
day, many of Mr. Lagrange's customers came in, that they might
become acquainted with the successors of their old friend. To these
Messrs. Dayton and Treves were introduced, and from them received
promise of support.

A colored man, who had been for a long time in the employ of Mr.
Lagrange, was retained in the employ of the store. Ralph Orton was
his name. He having been for a long time in the store, and during
that time having had free access to the wines, had formed an
appetite for them, in consequence of which he was often intoxicated.

His inebriation was periodical, and not of that kind whose subjects
are held in continual thraldom; yet, to use his own words, "when he
was drunk, he was drunk, and no mistake." He obeyed the old
injunction of "what is worth doing is worth doing well," and as long
as he got drunk he got well drunk.

He had ofttimes been reasoned with in his days of soberness, and had
often promised to reform; but so many around him drank that he could
not resist the temptation to drink also, and therefore broke his
promise. This habit had so fastened itself upon him, that, like one
in the coil of the serpent, the more he strove to escape the closer
it held him.

If there is any one habit to which if a man becomes attached he will

find more difficulty to escape from than another, it is that of
intemperance; yet all habits are so one with our nature that the
care taken to guard against the adoption of evil ones cannot be too
great.
Behold that man! He was tempted,--he yielded. He has surrendered a
noble estate, and squandered a large fortune. Once he had riches and
friends; his eye sparkled with the fire of ambition; hope and joy
beamed in each feature of his manly countenance, and all bespoke for
him a long life and happy death. Look at him now! without a penny in
his pocket, a wretched outcast, almost dead with starvation. Habit
worked the change-an evil habit.

Perchance some one in pity may bestow a small sum upon him. Utterly
regardless of the fact that his wife and children are at home
shivering over a few expiring embers that give no warmth, without a
crumb to appease their hunger, and although he himself a moment
before believed that if aid did not come speedily he must perish, he
hastens to the nearest groggery, and, laying down his money, calls
for that which has brought upon him and his such woe.

If there is any scene upon earth over which demons joy, it must be
when that rumseller takes that money.

This propensity of Ralph's was a serious objection to him as a

servant; yet, in every other respect, he was all that could be
desired. He was honest, faithful and obliging, and, knowing as they
did that he was well acquainted with the trade of the city, and
could go directly to the houses of Mr. Lagrange's customers, Messrs.
Dayton and Treves were induced to have him remain.

At the end of a month, Edward found himself in prosperous

circumstances, and wrote to his old village friends of the fact.
They, as a matter in course, were overjoyed in the reception of such
intelligence, and no one more so than Emily Lawton.

Edward had entered into a business in which temptations of a

peculiar nature gathered about him. Like nearly every one in those
days, he had no scruples against the use of wine. He thought no
danger was associated with its use; and, as an objection against
that would clash with the interests of his own pecuniary affairs, he
would be the last to raise it. In dealing forth to others, how
strong came the temptation to deal it to himself! Othro drank, and
pronounced a certain kind of wine a great luxury. Edward could not
(or, at least, so he thought) do otherwise; and so he drank, and
pronounced the same judgment upon it.

"What say you for an evening at the theatre?" said Othro, one
evening, as they were passing from their place of business, having
left it in care of their servants. "At the Gladiate the play is
'Hamlet,' and Mr. Figaro, from the old Drury, appears."

Edward had been educated in strict puritanic style, and had been
taught to consider the theatre as a den of iniquity. It is not our
purpose to defend or oppose this opinion. It was his, and he freely
expressed it. In fact, his partner knew it to be such before making
the request.

"I suppose," said Mr. Treves, "you oppose the theatre on account of
the intoxicating drinks sold there. Now, I am for a social drop
occasionally. Edward, a glass of pure 'Cogniac,' a nice cigar, and a
seat in front of a grate of blazing coal, and I'll be joyful."
"You may be joyful, then," replied Mr. Dayton; "but your joy might
be changed to grief, and your buoyancy of spirit be turned to
sadness of heart."

"Indeed, Edward! Quite a lecture, I declare! Been studying theology,

eh?"

"Not so; you are mistaken, Othro," said he. "There," he continued,
pointing to a reeling sot that passed them, "ask that man where he
first went for joy, and he may tell you of the theatre, or of social
glasses of brandy, cigars, and such like."

They had now arrived in front of the "Gladiate," a massive stone

structure, most brilliantly illuminated. Long rows of carriages
stood in front, and crowds of the gay and fashionable were flocking
in.

All was activity. Hackmen snapped their whips. Boys, ragged and
dirty, were waiting for the time when "checks" would circulate, and,
in fact, were in much need of checks, but those of a different
nature from those they so eagerly looked for.

Anon, the crowd gathered closer; and the prospect of a fight put the
boys in hysterics of delight, and their rags into great commotion.
To their sorrow, it was but the shadow of a "row"; and they kicked
and cuffed each other, in order to express their grief.

A large poster announced in flaming characters that that night was

the last but two of Mr. Figaro's appearance, and that other
engagements would prevent him from prolonging his stay, however much
the public might desire him to do so; whilst, if the, truth had been
told, the public would have known that a printer was that moment
"working off" other posters, announcing a re�ngagement of Mr. Figaro
for two weeks.

"Will you enter?" inquired Othro. Edward desired to be excused, and

they parted; one entering the theatre, the other repairing to his
home.

CHAPTER V.

The "tavern" at which our hero boarded was of the country, or,
rather, the colony order of architecture,--for piece had been added
to piece, until what was once a small shed was now quite an
extensive edifice.

As was the case with all taverns in those days, so also with
this,--the bar-room was its most prominent feature. Mr. Blinge, the
landlord, not only smoked, but was an inveterate lover of raw
whiskey, which often caused him to perform strange antics. The fact
that he loved whiskey was not strange, for in those days all drank.
The aged drank his morning, noon and evening potations, because he
had always done so; the young, because his father did; and the
lisping one reached forth its hands, and in childish accents called
for the "thugar," and the mother, unwilling to deny it that which
she believed could not harm it, gave.

Those were the days when seed was being sown, and now the harvesting
is in progress. Vain were it for us to attempt its description; you
will see it in ruined families, where are gathered blasted hopes,
withered expectations, and pangs, deep pangs of untold sorrow.

The child indulged has become a man, yet scarce worthy of the name;
for a habit has been formed that has sunken him below the brute, and
he lives not a help, but a burden, not a blessing, but a curse, to
his fellow-men.

Although Edward was opposed to the use of intoxicating drinks, his

business led him to associate with those who held opposite opinions.

Among the boarders was one, a bold, drinking, independent sort of a

man, who went against all innovations upon old customs with a fury
worthy of a subject of hydrophobia.

His name was "Pump." Barrel, or bottle, would have been more in
accordance with his character; but, as the old Pump had not
foresight enough to see into the future, he did not know that he was
inappropriately naming his son.

Every Pump must have its handle, on the same principle that "every
dog must have his day." The handle to the Pump in question was a
long one; 't was "Onendago."

"Onendago Pump" was written with red ink on the blank leaf of a
"Universal Songster" he carried in his pocket.

Dago, as he was called, lived on appearances; that is, he acted the

gentleman outwardly, but the beggar inwardly. He robbed his stomach
to clothe his back: howbeit, his good outside appearance often got
for him a good dinner.

By the aid of the tailor and the barber, he wore nice cloth and
curled hair; and, being blessed with a smooth, oily voice, was
enabled, by being invited to dinner here and to supper there, to
live quite easy.

Edward had just seated himself, when a loud rap on the door was
heard, and in a moment Mr. Onendago Pump, with two bottles, entered.
With a low bow, he inquired as to our hero's health, and proposed
spending an evening in his company.

"Ever hear me relate an incident of the last war?" said he, as he

seated himself, and placed his two bottles upon the side-table.

"Never," replied Edward.

"Well, Butler was our captain, and a regular man he; right up and
down good fellow,--better man never held sword or gave an order.
Well, we were quartered at-I don't remember where-history tells. We
led a lazy life; no red coats to fire at. One of the men came home,
one night, three sheets in the wind, and the fourth bound round his
head; awful patriotic was he, and made a noise, and swore he'd shoot
every man for the good of his country. Well, Captain Butler heard of
it, and the next day all hands were called. We formed a ring; Simon
Twigg, he who was drunk the day before, stood within it, and then
and there Captain Butler, who belonged to the Humane Society, and
never ordered a man to be flogged, lectured him half an hour. Well,
that lecture did Mr. Dago Pump immense good, and ever since I have
n't drank anything stronger than brandy.

"Never a man died of brandy!" said Mr. Pump, with much emphasis.
"Brandy's the word!" and, without saying more, he produced a
cork-screw, and with it opened a bottle.

A couple of glasses soon made their appearance. "Now, you will take
a glass with me," said Dago; "it is the pure Cogniac, quality one,
letter A."

"Drink, now," said he, pushing a glass towards him. "Wine is used by
the temperance society. They'll use brandy soon. Ah, they can't do
without their wine, and we can't do without our brandy! They want to
bind us in a free country, what my father bled and almost died for,--
bind us to drink cold water!" said Mr. Pump, sneeringly. "Let 'em
try it! I go for freedom of the press,--universal, everlasting,
unbounded freedom!"

When this patriotic bubble had exploded and the mist cleared away,
he sang a bacchanalian song, which he wished every free man in the
world would commit to memory. "What is the difference," said he,
"between this and wine? Neither will hurt a man; it is your
rum-drinking, gin-guzzling topers that are harmed;--anything will
harm them. Who ever heard of a genteel wine or brandy drinker
becoming a pest to society? Who ever heard of such an one rolling in
the mire? No; such men are able to take care of themselves. Away
with the pledge!"

"Perhaps you are right," replied Edward; "yet we should be careful.

Although all around me drink, I have until this moment abstained
from the use of brandy; but now, at your request, I partake of it.
Remember, if I, by this act, am led into habits of intemperance, if
I meet a drunkard's grave, the blame will rest upon you."

"Ha, ha, ha! Well done! So be it! I'll shoulder the blame, if a
respectable man like you falls by brandy."

Edward drank the contents of a glass, and, placing it upon the

table, said "We must be careful!"

"True!" said Mr. Pump, as he again filled the glass; "we cannot be
too much so. We must avoid rum and gin as we would a viper! How I
abhor the very name of rum! O, Mr. Dayton, think of the misery it
has brought upon man! I had a sister once, a beautiful, kind-hearted
creature. She was married to an industrious man; all was fair,
prospects bright. By degrees he got into bad company; he forgot his
home, loved rum more than that, became dissipated, died, and filled
a drunkard's grave! She, poor creature, went into a fever, became
delirious, raved day after day, and, heaping curses upon him who
sold her husband rum, died. Since then, I have looked upon rum as a
curse; but brandy,--it is a gentle stimulant, a healthy beverage, a
fine drink, and it can do no harm."
Onendago swallowed the contents of his glass, and Edward, who,
having taken the first, found it very easy to take the second, did
the same. Yet his conscience smote him; he felt that he was doing
wrong.

Like the innocent, unthinking bird, who, charmed by the serpent's

glistening eyes, falls an easy prey to its crushing embrace, was he
at that moment. He the bird, unconscious of the danger behind the
charm.

This is no fictitious tale. Would to Heaven it contained less of

truth! The world has seen many men like "Mr. Pump," and many have
through their instrumentality fallen; many not to rise till ages
shall have obliterated all memory of the past, with all its
unnatural loves! Whilst others, having struggled on for years, have
at length seen a feeble ray of light penetrating the dark clouds
that overshadowed their path, which light continued to increase,
till, in all its beauty, the star of temperance shone forth, by
which they strove ever after to be guided.

It was near midnight when Mr. Pump left. The two had become quite
sociable, and Mr. Pump saw the effect of his brandy in the unusual
gayety of Edward.

The latter was not lost to reflection; and now that he was alone,
thoughts of home, his business, and many other matters, came
confusedly into his mind.

Letters he had received of warning and advice. He took them in his

hands, looked over their contents, and with feelings of sadness, and
somewhat of remorse, thought of his ways.

A bundle of old letters! A circle of loved friends! How alike! There

is that's pleasant, yet sad, in these. How vividly they present to
our view the past! The writers, some, perhaps, are dead; others are
far away. Yet, dead or alive, near or far distant, we seem to be
with them as we read their thoughts traced out on the sheet before
us.

As Edward read here and there a letter, it did seem as though his
friends stood beside him, and spoke words of advice which conscience
whispered should be heeded. Love was the theme of not a few, yet all
warned him to flee from evil. He returned the parcel, and, as he did
so, he pledged himself that if he drank any it should be with
moderation: and that, as soon as he felt its ruinous effects, to
abstain altogether.

The next morning Othro was late at the store; yet, when he arrived,
he was full of praise of the play.

"Figaro acted Hamlet to a charm," said he; "and Fanny Lightfoot

danced like a fairy. But two nights more! Now, Edward, if you do not
wish to offend me, and that exceedingly, say you will go with me
to-morrow night."
CHAPTER VI.

Three years had elapsed since the events of the last chapter. Edward
had often visited his native village, and, as the results of these
visits, Emily Lawton became Mrs. Dayton; and she, with Mrs. Brandon,
was removed to an elegantly furnished house in the city. Yet, with
all its elegance, Mrs. Brandon, who had been accustomed to rural
simplicity, did not feel happy except when in her own room, which
Edward had ordered to be furnished in a style answering her own
wishes.

Messrs. Dayton and Treves had been highly successful in their

business operations; and, enjoying as they did the patronage of the
�lite of the city, they, with but little stretch of their
imaginative powers, could see a fortune at no great distance.

Becoming acquainted with a large number of persons of wealth, they

were present at very many of the winter entertainments; and, being
invited to drink, they had not courage to refuse, and did not wish
to act so ungenteel and uncivil. Others drank; and some loved their
rum, and would have it. Edward had taken many steps since the events
of our last chapter; yet, thought he, "I drink moderately."

There was to be a great party. A musical prodigy, in the shape of a

child of ten years, had arrived, and the leaders of fashion had
agreed upon having a grand entertainment on the occasion.

Great was the activity and bustle displayed, and in no place more
than at the store of Dayton and Treves. As ill-luck would have it,
Ralph had been absent a week on one of his drunken sprees, and his
employers were obliged to procure another to fill his place.

The event was to take place at the house of a distinguished city

officer; and, as Messrs. Dayton and Treves were to provide
refreshment, their time was fully occupied.

The papers were filled with predictions concerning it; and the
editors, happy fellows, were in ecstasies of joy on account of
having been invited to attend. Nor were Messrs. Dayton and Treves
forgotten; but lengthy eulogies upon their abilities to perform the
duty assigned them occupied prominent places, and "steamboat
disasters," "horrid murders," and "dreadful accidents," were obliged
to make room for these.

In the course of human events the evening came. Hacks were in

demand, and the rattling of wheels and the falling of carriage-steps
were heard till near midnight.

The chief object of attraction was a small boy, who had attained
considerable proficiency in musical knowledge, not of any particular
instrument, but anything and everything; consequently a large
assortment of instruments had been collected, upon which he played.
As music had called them together, it was the employment of the
evening, and the hour of midnight had passed when they were summoned
to the tables.
Those gentlemen who desired had an apartment to themselves, where
wine and cigars circulated freely. Some, in a short time, became
excited; whilst others, upon whom the same cause had a different
effect, became stupid. One poor fellow, whose bloated countenance
told a sad tale, lay almost senseless; another sat dreamingly over
his half-filled glass, whilst another excited the risibilities of
not a few by his ineffectual attempts to light his cigar.

Our hero, like his companions, was a little overcome by too frequent
potations from the bottle. It was a sad sight to a reflective mind.
The majority were young men, whose eyes had been blinded to the
danger they were in, by adhering to a foolish and injurious custom.

As hour passed hour, they became more excited, until a high state of
enthusiasm existed.

All the ladies had retired, except one, and she strove hard to
conceal her rising sorrow by forced smiles; yet she could not
restrain her feelings,--her heart seemed bursting with grief. In vain
did officious servants seek to know the cause. To the inquiries of
the lady of the house she made no reply. She dare not reveal the
secret which pierced her very soul; but, burying her face in her
hands, seemed resolved upon not being comforted. Finally, yielding
to the persuasive influence of Mrs. Venet, she expressed her fears
that Edward had tarried too long at the bowl.

Mrs. Venet tried to comfort her by saying that, if what she so much
feared was true, yet it was nothing uncommon; and mentioned several
men, and not a few ladies, who had been carried away in a senseless
condition.

These words did not comfort her; on the contrary, they increased her
fears, and led her to believe that there was more danger at such
parties than there was generally thought to be; and the fact that
Edward had often attended such parties increased her sorrow, for she
knew not but that he had been among that number of whom Mrs. Venet
spoke.

Imagination brought to her view troubles and trials as her future

lot; and last, not least, the thought of Edward's temperament, and
of how easily he might be led astray, rested heavily upon her heart.
Mrs. Venet at length left her, and repaired to the gentleman's
apartment, in order to learn the cause of his delay.

"Who in the devil's there, with that thundering racket?" inquired a

loud voice.

"It is Mrs. Venet," replied the lady.

"O, it is, is it? Well, madam, Dayton the confectioner, and a dozen
jovial souls, are having a rare time here. Put that down in your
memorandum-book, and leave us to our meditations."

"Yes, and these to profit and loss," said another, and the breaking
of glasses was heard.

"If Mr. Dayton is within, tell him his lady is waiting for him,"
said Mrs. Venet.
"Ed, your wife's waiting,"' said one of the party.

"Then, friends, I-I-I must go," said the inebriated man, who, though
badly intoxicated, had not wholly forgotten her.

His companions endeavored to have him remain, but in vain. He

unbolted the door, and, leaving, closed it upon them.

Mrs. Venet, who was standing without, laid hold of his coat, and,
knowing the excited state of Mrs. Dayton, and fearing that the
appearance of her husband would be too much for her to bear,
endeavored to induce him not to enter the room, or, at least, to
wait until he had recovered from the effects of his drinking.

He appeared rational for a while, but, suddenly breaking away,

shouted, "Emily, where are you?"

The sound of his voice resounded through the building, and his
drunken companions, hearing it, made the building echo with their
boisterous laughter.

He ran through the entries gazing wildly around, and loudly calling
for his wife.

The servants, hearing the tumult, hastened to the spot; but neither
they nor Mrs. Venet could induce him to become quiet.

The latter, finding she could have no influence upon him, repaired
to the room in which she left Mrs. Dayton, and found her senseless
upon the floor, and to all appearances dead. She had heard his wild
cries, and what she had so much feared she then knew to be true.

Mrs. Venet rang for the servants, and ordered some restoratives.
These were soon obtained, and by their free use she had nearly
recovered, when her husband rushed into the room.

Upon seeing his wife, the raging lion became as docile as a lamb. A
sudden change came over him; he seemed to realize the truth, and it
sent an arrow to his soul.

Again the injured wife fainted, and again the restoratives were
faithfully applied; but it was evident that if Mr. Dayton remained
in her presence it would be difficult to restore her, and the man
who before would not be approached was led quietly away. In a short
time Mrs. Dayton became sensible, and her first words were to
inquire after Edward. Being told, she was induced to lie down, and,
if possible, enjoy a little sleep; but sleep she could not. Her mind
became almost delirious, and fears were entertained by her
attendants that she would lose her reason.

The effects of Edward's carousal were entirely dissipated by the

sudden realization of the truth.

To Mrs. Dayton this was an hour of the deepest sorrow. She looked
back upon the past, and saw happiness; in the future nothing but
misery seemed to await her. Yet a change came over her; she thanked
God for his past mercies, and wisely trusted him for their
continuance. She implored pardon for past ingratitude, and prayed
that she might be more grateful in future, and that, having tasted
of the cup of sorrow, she might not drink the bitter draught.

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning Edward repented of his crime, and in his inmost
soul felt it to be such,--a crime of deepest dye.

Emily wept as she bent over him.

"Cease thy tears," said he, "and forgive; it is but that word,
spoken by thee, that can send peace to my soul. Yet what peace can I
expect? I have wronged thee!"-and the wretched man wept like a
child.

New thoughts continually sprang into existence,--the days of his

youth, the bliss of home, and his present situation. He felt
disgraced;--how should he redeem his character?

"O, that the grave would hide me," continued Edward, "and that in
death I might forget this crime! But no! I cannot forget it; it will
cling to me through life, and the future--"

He would have said more, but the strong emotions of his soul choked
his utterance.

He arose and paced the room in agony of feeling which pen cannot
describe. Suddenly halting, he gazed steadfastly upon the face of
his wife. It was deadly pale, and a tear dimmed the usual lustre of
her eye.

"Comfort thyself," said he; "no further evil shall come upon thee.
It shall never be said you are a drunkard's wife,--no, no, no,
never!"

"Let us, then, forget the past," said Mrs. Dayton.

"What! forget those days when I had not tasted? O, misery indeed, if
I cannot retain their remembrance!" said Edward.

"Not so, Edward; we would remember those, but forget the evil that
has befallen us,--all will be well."

"Do you-can you forgive?"

"God will forgive; and shall not I?"

"Then let this be a pledge of the future;" and, taking her hand in
his, he said; "I resolve to walk in the path of right, and never
more to wander, God being my witness and my strength."

"'T is well thou hast pledged thyself," said she; "but know thou the
tempter is on every side. Should the wine-cup touch thy lips, dash
it aside, and proclaim yourself a pledged man."

"I will!" was the response, and, taking a pen, he boldly placed his
name to the following pledge:

"PLEDGE.-We pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of all

intoxicating drinks, except the moderate use of wine, beer and
cider."

Such was the pledge to which he affixed his name, and such the
pledge by which men of those days endeavored to stay the tide of
intemperance. Did not every man who signed that pledge himself to
become a moderate drinker; and is not every moderate drinker pledged
to become a drunkard? What a pledge! Yet we should not blame the men
of former years for pursuing a course which they conscientiously
thought to be right. That was the first step. It was well as far as
it led; but it paused at the threshold of the ark of safety, and
there its disciples fell. They had not seen, as have men of late
years, the ruinous tendency of such a course; and knew not, as we
now do, that total abstinence is the only sure course.

The pledge Edward had signed was no preventive in his case. He had
tasted; in fact, he had become a lover of strong drink; and the
temptation of having it constantly beside him, and daily dealing it
out to others, was too strong for him to resist. When he drank, he
did think, as Emily had bade him, that he was a pledged man; but
that pledge permitted him to drink wine. The remedy such a pledge
applied was of no avail. It failed to reach the fountain-head, and
strove to stop the stream by placing slight resistances in its way.

A long time must elapse before a man can know the heart of his
fellow-man, if, indeed, it can ever be known; and it was not until
Edward had become addicted to habits of intemperance that he
discovered the professed friendship of Mr. Treves to be insincere.
Words of warning seldom came from his lips. What cared he if Edward
did fall? Such being the case, the business would come into his own
hands; and such "a consummation devoutly to be wished" it was very
evident that if Edward did not soon reform was not far distant.

Now Emily Dayton began to experience anxious days and sleepless

nights, and Mrs. Brandon begged of Edward to reform. Often he would
do so. He would sign that pledge; but it was like an attempt to stay
a torrent with a straw. That pledge! 'twas nothing! yea, worse than
nothing!

Six months of sorrowing passed, and what a change we behold!

Experience has shown to Edward that the use of brandy is dangerous,
and good dame Brandon has been led to believe that there are
temptations in the city which she little thought of.

Edward, driven from his business, revels in bar-rooms, and riots at

midnight; whilst the patient, uncomplaining, enduring Emily, forced
by creditors from her former home, finds shelter from the storm in a
small tenement; where, by the aid of her needle, she is enabled to
support herself and aged aunt, whilst a prattling infant plays at
her side, and, laughing in its childish sports, thinks not of the
sorrows it was born to encounter, and knows not the sad feelings of
its mother's wounded heart.
CHAPTER VIII.

In a low, damp, dark cellar, behold a man washing the glasses of a

groggery. His ragged dress and uncombed hair, his shabby and dirty
appearance, do not prevent us from seeing indications of his once
having been in better circumstances, and that nature never designed
that he should be where he now is.

Having rinsed a few cracked tumblers, he sat down beside a red-hot

cylinder stove, and, bending over till his head rested upon his
hands, he, in a half-audible voice, talked to himself.

"Here 't is, eighteen forty-some years since I saw that Dayton cove;
eh, gone by the board? The daily papers say he was up for a common
drunkard; but, being first time, was lectured and sent home. Plaguy
poor home his, I reckon! Wonder if the lecture did him as much good
as Old Batter's did me. Ah! he liked that brandy, and said I should
bear the blame if he was ruined; but he an't that yet. Here I am,
ten times worse off than he is, and I an't ruined. No! Mr. Dago Pump
is a man yet. Well, well! what shall I say?-business awful dull, and
it's damp and dark here; I feel cold 'side of this red-faced stove."

Mr. Onendago Pump poked the fire, and continued to do so till a

ragged little boy, without shoes, stockings or cap, came down the
slippery steps, and asked for "two cents' worth of rum, and one
cent's worth of crackers."

The proprietor of this subterraneous establishment threw aside an

old wire that served as a poker, and demanded payment in advance.
The child handed him the three cents, received his rum and crackers,
and left.

Mr. Pump, who for a long time had lived on appearances, could do so
no longer; for, persisting in his opinion that brandy could not hurt
him, he drank so much that bad soon supplanted good appearances, and
his company was soon discarded.

Mr. Blinge would not have him about his premises, although the one
drank as much as the other, and a great similarity existed between
them.

He was turned out of the tavern, and, having purchased four

shillings' worth of brandy, commenced
alluded to, replenishing his stock by
neighboring pump; and, for every gill
tap, poured a gill of water in at the
in trade.
business in the cellar we have
daily applying to a
of brandy he drew from the
bung, and thus kept up a stock

In a short time, a collection of drinking loafers met daily at his

place, and Dago Pump could see no difference between his
respectability as proprietor of a bar-room, and his who, being owner
of thousands, fitted up "oyster saloons," which places had suddenly
sprung up in all large cities.

Edward had fallen; he had become what was termed a "common

drunkard." His wife wept tears of anguish; she entreated; she begged
him to reform. She prayed to Heaven for its aid; yet week passed
week, month followed month, on Time's unending course, and she was a
drunkard's wife still. All friends had forsaken her. Friends! shall
we call them such? No; they did not deserve the name. Their
friendship only had an existence when fortune smiled; when a frown
mantled its countenance, or a cloud intervened, they fled. Yet God
was raising up friends for her, and from a class of society from
whom she little expected aid. God was working, in his mysterious
way, a deliverance. He had heard the prayers that for many long
years had gone up to his throne from thousands of wretched families;
and, moved to pity, he was to show them that he was a God of mercy.

Othro Treves-where is he? Not in that elegant store; it long since

passed into other hands. Has he made his fortune, and retired? Such
we might suppose to be the case, did we not know that he trusted to
moderate drinking. Man might as well trust a leaky vessel to bear
him across the ocean, as to trust that.

The clock struck twelve.

"'T is midnight," said a female voice, "and he has not come. God
send repentance to his heart! Hope has almost failed me; yet I will
hope on."

"Another glass of brandy for me," said a man, addressing Mr. Dago
Pump.

"And rum for me," said another.

"Gin with a hot poker in it for me," said the third; and Mr. Pump
poured out the poisons.

Half a dozen men stood in front of some rough boards that served as
a "bar."

One of these-a tall, well-formed man-gazed fixedly upon the glasses,

seemingly in deep thought.

"Stop!" he suddenly exclaimed. Mr. Pump nearly dropped the bottle.

It was as an electric shock to him: an ashy paleness came over his
face. "Stop!" he again exclaimed. All eyes were fixed upon him. Some
tried to laugh, but could not. Dago set down the bottle, and the
glasses, half filled, stood upon the bench before him.

"I have been thinking," said he who had caused this strange effect,
"is it right for us to drink that? It does us no good; it brings
upon us much evil; that's what I've been a-thinking while 'twas
being poured out."

"So have I," exclaimed another.

"And I," said a third. "I would have been worth fifty thousand
dollars, this day, had I never touched stuff like that. I tell you
what, coveys, let's come out."
"Hurra!" shouted yet another; "I've spent a good fortune in
rum-shops. That's what I say; let's come out."

"Yes," said the first speaker, "let us come out. We have been in
long enough;--in the gutter, in the grog-shop, in misery, in
disgrace, in poverty, in jail, and in ruin. I say, let us come out,
out of all these."

"Amen!" responded all.

"Let us come out," he continued; "but what can temperance folks do?
I have signed the pledge, and signed, and signed, but I cannot keep
it. I had no friends; temperance folks never came to me. I have
often thought that, if a friend would reach forth his hand, and help
me from the gutter when I have lain there, I would do anything for
such a friend. But when I am drunk they laugh at and jeer me. Boys
stone and cuff me, and men stand by and laugh at their hellish
sport. Yes, those calling themselves 'friends of temperance' would
laugh at me, and say, 'Miserable fool, nothing can save him! When
such are dead, we can train up a generation of temperate people.' I
am kicked and cuffed about like a dog, and not a hand is extended to
relieve me. When I first tasted, I told him who gave it me the blame
should rest on him if I fell. Where he is now, I know not; but,
wherever he is, I know his is a miserable existence. Years have
passed since then, and here I am, a miserable drunkard. My
wife-where is she? and my good old aunt-where is she? At home in
that comfortless room, weeping over my fall, and praying for my
reform. Brothers, let us arise; let us determine to be men-free
men!"

"It is done," said one and all; and the keeper of the cellar dashed
bottle after bottle against the wall.

"Yes, let us renounce these habits; they are hard to renounce;

temptation is hard to resist."

"The present pledge is not safe for us," said the keeper of the
cellar, as he took a demijohn of liquor up the steps, and emptied it
in the gutter.

"Then let us have one of our own," said the first speaker. "Let it
be called 'The Hope of the Fallen;' for we are indeed fallen, and
this, our last refuge from more fearful evils, is our only hope. May
it not disappoint us! May we cling to it as the drowning man grasps
the rope thrown out for his rescue! And not for us alone shall this
hope exist. Let us go to every unfortunate in our land, and speak
kindly to him. Al, my friends, we know the value of a kind word. Let
us lift him from the gutter, place him upon his feet, and say,
'Stand up! I myself also am a man.'"

Having said this, he sent out for pen, ink and paper, and a pledge
was carefully drawn up, of which the following is a copy:

"We, whose names are hereunto affixed, knowing by sad experience

that the use of wine, beer, cider, rum, brandy, gin, and all kinds
of intoxicating drinks, is hurtful to man, beast and reptile, do
hereby pledge ourselves most solemnly to abstain now, henceforth,
and forever, from the use of them in whatever shape they may be
presented; to neither eat, drink, touch, taste, nor handle them; and
in every place, and on every occasion, to use our influence in
inducing others to do the same."

The speaker was the first to place his name to this document; and
the keeper of the cellar started when he read the name of "Edward
Dayton."

"Is it possible!" said he, and, grasping his hand, he shook it most
heartily.

Edward was as much astonished as he. Such a change had taken place
that they could not at first recognize each other.

"Yes," said Edward, "you tempted me to drink. I forgive. I now tempt

you to sign this pledge."

No words were required to induce all present to sign.

They all spake of their past lives, related the sorrows they had
felt, the misery they had endured; and such was the interest
manifested by each in listening to these plain, unvarnished tales,
that they resolved upon meeting in that same place the next night.

The next day, the report spread like wild-fire about the city that
drunkards themselves were reforming. Many doubted, and would not
believe such to be the case.

"They are past reforming," said public opinion; "let them die; let
us take care of the young."

CHAPTER IX.

They met in the same place the next night, but the next they did
not. Their numbers had so increased that the cellar would not
contain them; and they engaged a large hall, and gave public notice
that a meeting would be held at which reformed drunkards would
speak. Those who before doubted did so no more; yet from many the
sneering, cold-hearted remark was heard, "They will not hold on."

At the hour appointed, hundreds thronged to the place, and hundreds

departed, being unable to gain admittance. That night, nearly five
hundred signed the new pledge, and new additions were made daily.

It had a power which no previous pledge had possessed; a power, with

God's, aid, to bring man from the lowest depths of woe, place him on
his feet, and tell him, "Sin no more."

The new society increased in numbers. In other cities the same

feeling arose, and societies of the same kind were formed. The
papers were filled with accounts of their meetings, and the cause
spread, to the astonishment and grateful admiration of all.
Days of prosperity gladdened the heart of Edward. Joy took the place
of sorrow in his family. He, like his thousands of brethren, had
been snatched as a brand from the burning, and stood forth a living
monument to the truth that there was a hope for the fallen.

Twelve years have passed since that ever-memorable night. Millions

have become better men, and yet the pledge remains to exert its
influence, and who can doubt that God directs its course?

'T is sending joy to the mourning, and many a wounded heart it

heals. Is there a power that can exceed this? Is there another
pledge that has effected as much good?

Let us, then, push on the car. Let our influence be such as will
advance, and not retard, its progress. Let us do this, and ere long
we may rejoice together, and earth hold a grand jubilee, and all men
shall testify that the Pledge is the "hope of the fallen."

THOUGHTS THAT COME FROM LONG AGO.

THERE are moments in our life

When are hushed its sounds of strife;
When, from busy toil set free,
Mind goes back the past to see:
Memory, with its mighty powers,
Brings to view our childhood hours;
Once again we romp and play,
As we did in youth's bright day;
And, with never-ceasing flow,
Come the hours of Long Ago.
Oft, when passions round us throng,
And our steps incline to wrong,
Memory brings a friend to view,
In each line and feature true;
Though he long hath left us here,
Then his presence seemeth near,
And with sweet, persuasive voice,
Leads us from an evil choice;--
Thus, when we astray would go,
Come restraints from Long Ago.
Oft, when troubled and perplexed,
Worn in heart and sorely vexed;
Almost sinking 'neath our load,
Famishing on life's high road,--
Darkness, doubt, and dark despair
Leading us we know not where,--
How hath sweet remembrance caught
From the past some happy thought!
And, refreshed, we on would go,
 Cheered with hopes from Long Ago.
What a store-house, filled with gems
Of more worth than diadems,
Each hath 'neath his own control,
From which to refresh his soul!
Let us, then, each action weigh,
Some good deed perform each day,
That in future we may find
Happy thoughts to bring to mind;
For, with ever ceaseless flow,
Thoughts will come from Long Ago.

DETERMINED TO BE RICH.

RISE up early, sit up late,

Be thou unto Avarice sold;
Watch thou well at Mammon's gate,
Just to gain a little gold.
Crush thy brother neath thy feet,
Till each manly thought is flown;
Hear not, though he loud entreat,
Be thou deaf to every moan.
Wield the lash, and hush the cry,
Let thy conscience now be seared;
Pile thy glittering gems on high,
Till thy golden god is reared.
Then before its sparkling shrine
Bend the neck and bow the knee;
Victor thou, all wealth is thine,
Yet, what doth it profit thee?

THE HEAVEN SENT, HEAVEN RETURNED.

PURE as an infant's heart that sin ne'er touched,

That guilt had ne'er polluted; and she seemed
Most like an angel that had missed its way
On some kind mission Heaven had bade it go.
Her eye beamed bright with beauty; and innocence,
Its dulcet notes breathed forth in every word,
Was seen in every motion that she made.
Her form was faultless, and her golden hair
 In long luxuriant tresses floated o'er
Her shoulders, that as alabaster shone.
Her very look seemed to impart a sense
Of matchless purity to all it met.
I saw her in the crowd, yet none were there
That seemed so pure as she; and every eye
That met her eye's mild glance shrank back abashed,
It spake such innocence.
One day she slept,--
How calm and motionless! I watched her sleep
Till evening; then, until the sun arose;
And then, would have awakened her,--but friends
Whispered in my ear she would not wake
Within that body more, for it was dead,
And she, now clothed in immortality,
Would know no more of change, nor know a care.
And when I felt that truth, methought I saw
A bright angelic throng, in robes of white,
Bear forth her spirit to the throne of God;
And I heard music, such as comes to us
Oft in our dreams, as from some unseen life,
And holy voices chanting heavenly songs,
And harps and voices blending in one hymn,
Eternal hymn of highest praise to God
For all the good the Heaven-sent one had done
Since first it left the heavenly fold of souls,
To live on earth, and show to lower man
How pure and holy, joyous and serene,
They may and shall assuredly become
When all the laws that God through Nature speaks
Are kept unbroken! * * *
* * * She had now returned,
And heaven resounded with angelic songs.
Before me lay the cold, unmoving form;
Above me lived the joyous, happy one!
And who should sorrow? Sure, not I; not she;
Not any one! For death,--there was no death,--
But that which men called death was life more real
Than heart had o'er conceived or words expressed!

FLOWERS, BRIGHT FLOWERS!

FLOWERS from the wild-wood,

Flowers, bright flowers!
Springing in desert spot,
Where man dwelleth not,--
Flowers, bright flowers,
Cheering the traveller's lot.
Given to one and all,
Flowers, bright flowers!
 When man neglecteth thee,
When he rejecteth thee,
Flowers, bright flowers,
God's hand protecteth thee!
Remnants of paradise,
Flowers, bright flowers!
Tinged with a heavenly hue,
Reflecting its azure blue,
Flowers, bright flowers,
Brightest earth ever knew!
Cheering the desolate,
Flowers, bright flowers!
Coming with fragrance fraught,
From Heaven's own breezes caught,
Flowers, bright flowers,
Teachers of holy thought!
Borne to the curtained room,
Flowers, bright flowers!
Where the sick longs for light,
Then, for the shades of night,
Flowers, bright flowers,
Gladdening the wearied sight!
High on the mountain-top,
Flowers, bright flowers!
Low in sequestered vale,
On cliff, mid rock, in dale,
Flowers, bright flowers,
Ye do prevail!

FORGET ME NOT.

FORGET me not when other lips

Shall whisper love to thee;
Forget me not when others twine
Their chaplets for thy brow;
Forget me not, for I am thine,
Forever onward true as now,
As long as time shall be.
There may be words thou mayest doubt,
But when I tell thee "I am thine,"
Believe the heart's assurance true,
In sorrow and in mirth
Forever it doth turn to you,
Confiding, trusting in thy worth.
Thou wilt, I know, be mine.
WHAT IS TRUTH?

LONG, long ago, one whose life had been one of goodness-whose every
act had been that of charity and good will-was persecuted, hated and
maligned! He came with new hopes. He held up a light, whose rays
penetrated far into the future, and disclosed a full and glorious
immortality to the long doubting, troubled soul of man.

He professed to commune with angels! He had healed the sick; he had

given sight to the blind; caused the lame to walk; opened
prison-doors, and had preached the Gospel to the poor. Those he
chose for his companions were from humble rank. Their minds had not
become enslaved to any creed; not wedded to any of the fashionable
and popular forms of the day, nor immovably fixed to any of the
dogmas of the schools. He chose such because their minds were free
and natural; "and they forsook all and followed him."

Among the rulers, the wealthy and the powerful, but few believed in
him, or in the works he performed. To them he was an impostor. In
speaking of his labors some cant phrase fell from their wise lips,
synonymous with the "it is all a humbug" of our day. His healing of
the sick was denied; or, if admitted, was said to be some lucky
circumstance of fate. His opening of the eyes of the blind was to
them a mere illusion; the supposed cure, only an operation of the
imagination.

All his good deeds were underrated; and those who, having seen with
their own eyes, and heard with their own ears, were honest enough to
believe and openly declare their belief; were looked upon by the
influential and those in high places as most egregiously deceived
and imposed upon.

But, notwithstanding the opposition, men did believe; and in one day
three thousand acknowledged their belief in the sincerity of the
teacher, and in the doctrines which he taught.

Impressed deeply with the reality and divinity of his

mission,--looking to God as his father, and to all mankind as his
brethren,--Jesus continued his way. To the scoffs and jeers of the
rabble, he replied in meekness and love; and amid the proud and
lofty he walked humbly, ever conscious of the presence of an angelic
power, which would silence the loudest, and render powerless the
might of human strength.

He spoke as one having authority. He condemned the formalism of

their worship; declared a faith that went deeper than exterior rites
and ceremonies; and spoke with an independence and fearlessness such
deep and soul-searching truths, that the people took up stones to
stone him, and the priests and the rulers held council together
against him.

At length the excited populace, beholding their cherished faith

undermined, and the new teacher day by day inculcating doctrines
opposed to those of Moses and the prophets, determined to take his
life, and thus terminate his labors and put a stop to his heresies.

They watched his every movement. They stood by and caught the words
as they fell from his lips, hoping thus to get something by which to
form an accusation against him. In this they failed. Though what he
said was contrary to their time-worn dogmas, yet nothing came from
his lips but sentiments of the purest love, the injunctions of
reason and justice, and the language of humanity. Failing in this
plan to ensnare him, justice was set abide, and force called in to
their aid.

See him now before a great tribunal, and Pilate, troubled in soul,
compelled to say, "I find no fault in this man."

Urged to action by the mad crowd around him, balancing his decision
between justice, the prisoner's release, and injustice, the call to
crucify him, he knows not what to do. In an agony of thought, which
pen cannot describe or human words portray, he delays his
irrevocable doom.

In the mean time, the persecutors grow impatient; and louder than
ever, from the chief priests and the supporters of royalty, goes up
the infamous shout, "Crucify him, crucify him!" At this moment, the
undecided, fearful Pilate casts a searching glance about him. As he
beholds the passionate people, eager for the blood of one man, and
he innocent, and sees, standing in their midst, the meek and lowly
Jesus, calm as an evening zephyr over Judea's plains, from whose eye
flows the gentle love of an infinite divinity,--his face beaming in
sympathy with every attribute of goodness, faith and humanity,--all
this, too, before his mad, unjust accusers, from whose eyes flash in
mingled rays the venom of scorn and hate,--his mind grows strong with
a sense of right. His feelings will not longer be restrained, and,
unconscious of his position, forgetting for the moment the dignity
of his office, he exclaims, with the most emphatic earnestness,
"WHAT IS TRUTH?"

Eighteen hundred years have intervened between that day and this;
and now the same inquiry is heard, and often with the same
earnestness as then. Men ask, and often ask in vain, "what is
truth?" and yet the great problem to millions remains unsolved.

Generations pass on, and leave to others the great question for them
to ask, and they, in turn, to leave unanswered. The child, ere it
can speak in words, looks from its wistful eye, "What is truth?"
Youth comes, and all the emotions of the soul are awakened. It
arises from the playfulness of childhood, forgets its little games,
and, finding itself an actor in the drama of life, looks over the
long programme of parts from which it is to choose its own, and
anxiously inquires "What is truth?" Manhood feels the importance of
the question; and Age, though conscious of its near approach to the
world of revealed truth, repeats it.

The present is an era of thought. Men begin to assume a spirit of

independence, and to look less upon human authority, and more upon
that light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world. And
it is well that it is so. It is well that we begin to look upon
liberty in another light than a mere absence of iron bonds upon our
hands and feet; that we begin to discern that "He is a freeman whom
the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside." We are pressing on
to know the truth. We have grown weary of darkness, and are seeking
the light. We should remember, in our researches, that, to find out
truth, we must not be pledged to any form, any opinion, or any
creed, however old or dearly cherished such limitations may have
been with ourselves or others. We must come to the task like little
children, ready to learn. We must leave our beliefs behind us. We
must not bring them, and attempt to adapt our discoveries in the
realms of eternal truth to them; but we must build up the structure
with the material we find in the universe of God; and then, when
reared, if we find that in doing so we have a stone from our old
temple nicely adjusted in the new, very well;--let it remain, and
thank God for it.

Men have trusted too much in the views of past ages, and taken for
truth many an error, because some one back in by-gone ages
introduced it as such, and it has been believed in and held most
sacred.

Let our course be our own course, and not that of others. Let us
seek for truth as truth. Let us be honest and press on, trusting in
God the rewarder of all, who will bless all our efforts to ascertain
his truths, and our duty to him, to our fellow-men, and to
ourselves.

THE HOMESTEAD VISIT.

He had wandered far and long, and when, on his return to the scenes
of his early life, he came in full view of the old house, in which
and around which those scenes were clustered, he throw down his
oaken staff, raised his hands, and clapped them like a child. Then a
tear would roll down his face; then a smile illumine it; then he
would dance with joy. As he approached the building, he observed
that the door was open; and the large, hospitable-looking room was
so inviting, and there being no one present, he entered, and
indulged in thoughts like these:

I STAND where I have stood before:

The same roof is above me,
But they who were are here no more,
For me to love, or love me.
I listen, and I seem to hear
A favorite voice to greet me;
But yet I know that none are near,
Save stranger forms, to meet me.
I'll sit me down,--for I have not
Sat here since first I started
To run life's race,--and on this spot
Will muse of the departed.
Then I was young, and on my brow
The rays of hope were shining;
But Time hath there his imprint now,
That tells of life's declining.
How great the change!-though I can see
Full many a thing I cherished-
Yet, since beneath yon old oak tree
I stood, how much hath perished.
Here is the same old oaken floor,
And there the same rough ceiling
Each telling of the scenes of yore,
Each former joys revealing.
But, friends of youth-they all have fled;
Some yet on earth do love us;
While others, passed beyond the dead,
Live guardian ones above us.
Yet, o'er us all one powerful hand
Is raised to guard forever,
And all, ere long, one happy band
Be joined, no more to sever.
I've trimmed my sail on every sea
Where crested waves are swelling;
Yet oft my heart turned back to thee,
My childhood's humble dwelling.
I've not forgot my youthful days,
The home that was my mother's,
When listening to the words of praise
That were bestowed on others.
See, yonder, through the window-pane,
The rock on which I rested;
And on that green how oft I've lain-
What memories there are vested!
The place where once a sister's hand
I held-none loved I fonder;
But she's now with an angel band,
Whilst I a pilgrim wander.
There was a pretty, blue-eyed girl,
A good old farmer's daughter;
We used the little stones to hurl,
And watch them skip the water.
We'd range among the forest trees,
To gather woodland flowers;
And then each other's fancy please
In building floral bowers.
Within this room, how many a time
I've listened to a story,
And heard grandfather sing his rhyme
'Bout Continental glory!
And oft I'd shoulder his old staff,
And march as proud as any,
Till the old gentleman would laugh,
And bless me with a penny.
Hark! 't is a footstep that I hear;
A stranger is approaching;
I must away-were I found here
I should be thought encroaching.
One last, last look-my old, old home!
One memory more of childhood!
I'll not forget, where'er I roam,
This homestead and the wild-wood.
THE MARINER'S SONG.

O THE sea, the sea! I love the sea!

For nothing on earth seems half as free
As its crested waves; they mount on high,
And seem to sport with the star-gemmed sky.
Talk as you will of the land and shore;
Give me the sea, and I ask no more.
I love to float on the ocean deep,
To be by its motion rocked to sleep;
Or to sit for hours and watch the spray,
Marking the course of our outward way,
While upward far in a cloudless sky
With a shriek the wild bird passeth by.
And when above are the threatening clouds,
And the wild wind whistles 'mid the shrouds,
Our masts bend low till they kiss the wave,
As beckoning one from its ocean cave,
Then hurra for the sea! I love its foam,
And over it like a bird would roam.
There is that's dear in a mountain home,
With dog and gun 'mid the woods to roam;
And city life hath a thousand joys,
That quiver amid its ceaseless noise;
Yet nothing on land can give to me
Such joy as that of the pathless sea.
When morning comes, and the sun's first rays
All around our gallant topmast plays,
My heart bounds forth with rapturous glee,
O, then, 't is then that I love the sea!
Talk as you will of the land and shore;
Give me the sea, and I ask no more!

LOVE'S LAST WORDS.

THEY knew that she was going

To holier, better spheres,
Yet they could not stay the flowing
Of their tears;
And they bent above in sorrow,
Like mourners o'er a tomb,
 For they knew that on the morrow
There'd be gloom.
There was one among the number
Who had watched the dying's breath,
With an eye that would not slumber
Until death.
There, as he bent above her,
He whispered in her ear
How fondly he did love her,
Her most dear.
"One word, 't will comfort send me,
When early spring appears,
And o'er thy grave I bend me
In my tears.
A single word now spoken
Shall be kept in Memory's shrine,
Where the dearest treasured token
Shall be thine."
She pressed his hand-she knew him-
With the fervor of a child;
And, looking fondly to him,
Sweetly smiled.
And, smiling thus, she started
For her glorious home above,
And her last breath, as it parted,
Whispered "Love."

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

SOMETIMES my heart complaineth

And moans in bitter sighs;
And dreams no hope remaineth,
No more its sun will rise.
But yet I know God liveth,
And will do all things well;
And that to me he giveth
More good than tongue can tell.
And though above me linger
At times dark Sorrow's shroud,
I see Faith's upraised finger
Point far beyond the cloud.

MT. VERNON, AND THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON.

THE heat of noon had passed, and the trees began to cast their
evening shadows, when, in company with a friend, I seated myself in
a carriage, and drove off in the direction of Mount Vernon. We
crossed the long bridge, and found ourselves in the old State of
Virginia.

It was a delightful afternoon; one just suited to the purpose to

which we had devoted it. The trees were clad in fresh, green
foliage, and the farms and gardens were blooming into early life. To
myself, no season appears so beautiful as that of spring. All
seasons to me are bright and glorious, but there is a charm about
spring that captivates the soul. Then Nature weaves her drapery, and
bends over the placid lake to jewel herself, as the maiden bends
before her mirror to deck her pure white brow with diamonds and
rubies. All is life, all animation, all clothed with hope; all
tending upward, onward to the bright future. "The trees are full of
crimson buds, the woods are full of birds, And the waters flow to
music, like a tune with pleasant words."

In about one hour we reached the city of Alexandria. Between this

place and Washington a steamboat plies, going and returning four
times a day. The road from Washington to Alexandria is about decent;
but the road from thence to Mount Vernon is in the worst possible
condition,--so bad, in fact, that we dismounted and walked a
considerable distance, it being far less tiresome to walk than to
ride. The road winds in a very circuitous route through a dense
forest, the lofty trees of which, rising upon either hand, cast
their deep shadows upon us. The place, that would otherwise have
been gloomy, was enlivened by the variable songs of the
mocking-birds, and the notes of their more beautiful-plumed though
less melodious companions.

Occasionally we passed the hut of a negro, and met a loaded team

from some Virginian farm, drawn by three or four ill-looking, yet
strong and serviceable horses. These teams were managed by
negroes,--never less than two, and in some cases by three or four,
or, as in one instance, by an entire family, man, wife and children,
seated on their loads, whistling and singing, where also sat a large
black-and-white mastiff. Long after we passed and they had receded
from our view, we could distinctly hear their melodious voices
singing their simple yet expressive songs, occasionally interrupted
by a "gee, yawh, shau," as they urged on their dilatory steeds.

The homes of the negroes were in some cases built of stone; mostly,
however, of boards, put loosely together, and in some instances of
large logs, the crevices being filled with mud, which, the sun and
wind having hardened, were white-washed, presenting a very strong
though not very beautiful appearance, the architecture of which was
neither Grecian nor Roman, but evidently from "original designs" by
a not very fastidious or accomplished artist.

Groups of women and children were about these houses; some seated on
the grass, in the shade of the tall trees; others standing in the
doors, all unemployed and apparently having nothing to do but to
talk, and this they appeared to engage in with a hearty good will.
We continued our way over stones, up steep, deep-rutted hills,
covered partly with branches and brambles, and down as steep
declivities, through ponds and brooks, now and then cheered by the
pleasing prospect of a long road, evidently designed to illustrate
the "ups and downs of life."

After a tiresome journey, partly walked, partly ridden, which was

somewhat relieved of its tediousness by the romantic and beautiful
scenery through which we passed, we came in view of Mount Vernon.

An old, infirm, yet good, sociable negro met us at the gate, and
told us that there was another road to the Mount, but that it was
not as good as the one we came over, and also that there was a
private road, which was not as good as either of the others! We
smiled, threw out a hint about a�rial navigation. He smiled also,
and, thinking we doubted his word, said, "Indeed, it is not as good;
I would n't tell you a lie about it." Mercy on pilgrims to Mount
Vernon! If you ever go there, reader, do provide yourself with a
conscience that can't be shaken out of you.

Having been kindly furnished with a letter from Mr. Seaton, the
editor of the Intelligencer, and Mayor of Washington city, to the
proprietor of the estate, we inquired whether he was at home, and
with pleasure learned that he was.

We passed into what we deemed an almost sacred enclosure, so linked

is it with the history of our country, and the glorious days that
gave birth to a nation's freedom. It seemed as though we had entered
an aviary, so many and so various the birds that floated in the air
around us, and filled it with the rich melody of their songs.

At a short distance stood a beautiful deer, as if transfixed to the

spot, his large, black, lustrous eyes turned towards us, his ears
erect, till, suddenly starting, he darted away, and leaped down the
steep hill-side to the water's brink.

The house I need not describe, as most persons are acquainted with
its appearance, from seeing the numerous engraved representations of
it. It shows many evidences of age and decay. Time is having his own
way with, it, as the hand that would defend it from his ravages, and
improve its looks, is kept back, that it may remain as nearly as
possible in the same condition as when occupied by our first
president. We entered and passed through several rooms, endeavoring
to allay our curiosity by asking more questions than our attendant
could conveniently answer and retain his senses.

We saw the massive key of that old French prison-house, the Bastile,
presented to General Washington by that friend of freedom and
humanity, General Lafayette, soon after the destruction of that
monument of terror. We noticed that depredations had been committed
by visitors upon the costly marble fire-frame, which was a gift to
Washington.

Mr. Washington being called to the farm, we availed ourselves of the

services of the old negro before mentioned, who led us around the
estate. On our way to the tomb, we passed through what we judged to
be a kitchen. The floor was brick, and a fireplace occupied nearly
all of one side of the room; one of those old-fashioned contrivances
which were in vogue in those days when people went more for comfort
than appearance. Half a score of negroes were in the room, who gazed
at us as we entered, covered with dust and dirt, the real free soil
of Virginia. They seemed to think our intentions more of a warlike
than a peaceable nature. We soon inclined them to the latter belief,
however, by gently patting a curly-headed urchin upon the head, and
distributing a few pennies among the crowd.

Five minutes' walk, and we were at the tomb.

"There is the old General," said the aged negro, as he touched

lightly the sarcophagus with his cane; "that, yonder, is his wife,"
pointing to a similar one at the left.

Silently I stood and gazed at the marble coffin that held the mortal
remains of him whom, when he lived, all people loved, and the memory
of whom, now that he has passed from our material vision, all people
revere. A few branches of cypress lay upon it, and at its base a few
withered flowers.

The sarcophagus that holds the dust of Washington is placed upon a

low pedestal, formed of brick. A brick wall is at the sides, and an
iron slat fence or gateway in front. Over this gateway a white stone
is set in the brick-work, and bears this inscription:

WITHIN THIS ENCLOSURE ARE

THE REMAINS

OF

GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON.

Short, indeed, but how full of food for thought!

"General George Washington!" He needs no long and fulsome epitaph

carved in marble to tell his worth. Did his memory depend upon that
alone, the marble would crumble into dust, mingle with his, and his
name pass away with the stone that man vainly thought would preserve
it. No; his monument is a world made free, and his memory as lasting
as immortal mind. Wherever the light of freedom shall penetrate, it
will bear on its every glistening ray his cherished name; and
whenever and wherever men shall struggle with oppression, it shall
inspire them with vigor, and cheer them on to victory.

Marble will perish, and monuments of adamant will crumble to dust;

but the memory of Washington will live as long as there is a heart
to love, or a mind to cherish a recollection of goodness.

"He was a good old man," said the negro, "and he has gone to his
rest."

"We are all going," he continued, after a pause. I thought a tear

stole down his wrinkled face; but he turned his back to me, and left
me to my own reflections.

Deep silence was about us. We heard not even the notes of a bird.
Not a zephyr moved the air, not a rustling leaf was there. In front,
far below, lay the Potomac. Not a breath of wind moved the surface
of its waters, but calmly, peacefully, undisturbed, the river moved
on, as though conscious of the spot it was passing. On its glassy
surface were reflected the branches that bent over and kissed it as
it flowed, and the last rays of a declining sun tinted with their
golden light the hills on the opposite shore.

I stood at the tomb of Washington: on my right stood a distinguished

Indian chief; on my left, "Uncle Josh," the old African, of
three-score years and ten. We represented three races of the human
family, and we each were there with the same feelings of love,
honor, and respect to departed worth.

Night was hastening on. I clambered up the embankment, and plucked a

few green leaves from a branch that hung over the tomb; gazed once
more, and yet again, within the enclosure; then turned away, and
hastened to overtake my companions, who were far in advance.

If our country is ever called to pass through another struggle, may

God, in his wisdom, raise up for it another Washington!

The sun had passed the horizon, and the cool evening air, laden with
the fragrance of shrubbery and flowers, gathered about us. A lively
squirrel sprang across our path; a belated bird flew by; and, amid
the pleasant, quiet scenes of rural life, we wended our way
homeward.

FREEDOM'S GATHERING.

I SEEMED to live beyond the present time;

Methought it was when all the world was free,

And myriad numbers, from each distant clime,

Came up to hold their annual jubilee.

From distant China, Afric's sunburnt shore,

From Greenland's icebergs, Russia's broad domain,

They came as men whom fetters bound no more,

And trod New England's valley, hill, and plain.

They met to hold a jubilee, for all
Were free from error's chain, and from the oppressor's thrall.
Word had gone forth that slavery's power was done;

The cry like wild-fire through the nations ran;

Russia's tame serf, and Afric's sable son,

Threw off their chains-each felt himself a man.

Thrones that had stood for ages were no more;

Man ceased to suffer; tyrants ceased to reign;

 And all throughout the world, from shore to shore,

Were loosed from slavery's fetter and its chain;

And those who once were slaves came up as free,
Unto New England's soil, to keep their jubilee.
New England! 't was a fitting place, for it

Had sent its rays upon them, as a star

Beams from the glorious heaven on slaves who sit

In chains, to lure them where free seraphs are;

The light it had shed on them made them start

From their deep lethargy, then look and see

That they of Freedom's boon might have a part,

Their nation glorious as New England be.

And then like men they struggled till they won,
And Freedom's high-born light shone as a noonday sun.
Men gathered there who were men; nobly they

Had long and faithful fought 'gainst error's night,

And now they saw the sunlight of that day

They long had hoped to see, when truth and right

Should triumph o'er the world, and all should hold

This truth self-evident, that fellow-men,

In God's own image made, should not be sold

Nor stalled as cattle in a market-pen.

Praises they sang, and thanks they gave to God,
That he had loosed the chain, and broke the oppressor's rod.
They gazed o'er all the past; their vision's eye

Beheld how men in former years had groaned,

When Hope's own flame burned dim, and no light nigh

Shone to disperse the darkness; when enthroned

Sat boasting Ignorance, and 'neath its sway

Grim Superstition held its lurid lamp,

That only darkened the obstructed way

In which man groped and wandered, till the damp,

Cold, cheerless gateway of an opening tomb
Met his extended hand, and sealed his final doom.
Perchance one mind, illumined from above,

Did strive to burst the heavy bonds it wore,

Pierce through the clouds of error, and, in love

With its new mission, upward seek to soar.

Upon it shone truth's faintest, feeblest ray;

It would be free; but tyrants saw and crushed

Man's first attempt to cast his chains away,

The first aspirings of his nature hushed.

Thus back from men was Freedom's genius driven,
And Slavery's chains in ten-fold strength were riven.
In gazing o'er the past, 't was this they saw-

How Evil long had triumphed; but to-day

Man bowed to nothing but God's righteous law,

And Truth maintained its undisputed sway.

Right conquered might; and of this they were proud,

As they beheld all nations drawing near,--

Men from all lands, a vast, unnumbered crowd,

While in their eyes full many a sparkling tear

Trembled a while, then from its cell did start,
Witness to the deep joys of an o'erflowing heart.
There came up those who'd crouched beneath the lash,

Had bowed beneath the chains they scarce could bear,

Till Freedom's lightning on their minds did flash,

And roused them as a lion in his lair

Is roused when foes invade it, then, with strength

Near superhuman, one bold effort made

To break their cruel bondage, till at length

Beneath their feet they saw their fetters laid.

'T was then they lifted their freed hands on high,
And peans loud and long resounded through the sky.
Up, up they came, and still the bannered host

Far in the distance met my wondering eye;

On hill and dale, on all New England's coast,

White banners waved beneath a cloudless sky.

The aged sire leaned on his oaken staff,

Manhood stood up in all its strength and pride,

And youth came dancing with a joyous laugh,

With woman, lovely woman, at their side;

Bright eyes, glad hearts, and joyous souls, were there,
Free as the light that shone, unfettered as the air.
The mind, that spark of Deity within

That hath its nurture from a higher world,

No longer bound by tyranny and sin,

Beheld its highest, noblest powers unfurled.

No more did Error bind it to its creed,

Or Superstition strive to blind its sight;

It followed only where God's truth did lead,

And trusted him to guide its course aright.

The inner as the outer man was free,
And both united held this glorious jubilee.
--'T was all a vision, and it passed away,
 As dreams depart; yet it did leave behind
Its deep impressions, thoughts that fain would stay

And hold communion with the tireless mind.

I wished that it were real; alas! I heard

The clank of Slavery's fetters rend the air;

And feelings of my heart were deeply stirred,

When I beheld my brethren, who dare

Proclaim all "equal," yet in chains of steel
Bind men, who, like themselves, can pain and pleasure feel.
God in his wisdom meant all should be free,

All equal: each a brother unto man.

Presumptuous mortal! who His great decree

Durst strive to change to suit thy selfish plan!

Know thou that his fixed purpose will be done,

Though thou arrayest all thy puny strength

In war against it! All who feel the sun

Shall own his goodness, and be free at length.

God cares for mortals, though he reigns on high;
Freedom is His own cause, and it shall never die!
My country! if my heart one wish doth hold,

For thee and for thy good, it is that thou

No more permit thy children to be sold!

Forbid that they as slaves to man shall bow!

For them our fathers nobly fought and bled;

For them they poured their life-blood forth as rain;

Shall it in foreign lands of us be said,

We bind our brothers with a galling chain?

While the Old World is struggling to be free,
America! shall this foul charge be laid to thee?
We all may err; may oft be led astray;

Let him who'd free the slave be careful he

Is not a slave himself to some fond way

He would adopt to set his brother free!

All seek one end; for all one good would gain;

Then, on as brothers, hand in hand proceed!

Paths that seem intricate will all be plain,

If we but follow where God's truth would lead.

Trust Him for strength in darkness and in light;

His word will cheer us on,--His presence give us might.
SONG OF THE BIRD.

ON the topmost branch of the highest tree

I sit and sing, I am free! I am free!
When the lightnings flash, when the thunders roar,
I plume my wings and away I soar!
But soon on the branch of a lofty tree
Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free!
A huntsman he came by my nest one day,
And thought that with gun my song he would stay;
But I left my nest when he thought me there,
And I roamed about in my native air.
Then, when he was gone, on the highest tree
Gayly I sung, I am free! I am free!
It is I, 't is I, that at dawn of day
Go to meet the sun at its earliest ray.
I love its heat; so I cheer it along
With chirping notes and melodious song;
And all the day on the highest tree
Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free!
When the dusky shades of the night appear,
In my nest on high I have naught to fear;
Sweetly I slumber till dawning of day,
Then to the East, for the sun, I'm away,
Till, borne on its rays to the highest tree,
Gayly I sing, I am free! I am free!
O, I love my nest, and my nest loves me!
It rocks like a bark on the dancing sea;
Gently it bows when I wish to retire;
When in, it rises higher and higher.
O, I love my nest, and I love the tree,
Home and the haunt of the bird that is free!

I CHANGE BUT IN DYING.

I CHANGE but in dying,--I am faithful till death!

I will guard thee with care from pollution's foul breath;
I promise that ne'er in neglect thou shalt pine;
I change but in dying,--say, wilt thou be mine?
I come not with riches; good fortune ne'er blest me;
Yet one of less worth hath often carest me;
The light of true love o'er thy pathway shall shine;
I change but in dying,--say, wilt thou be mine?
 I change but in dying,--no holier vow
From lips mortal e'er came than I breathe to thee now;
It comes from a heart with love for thee sighing;
Believe me, 't is true,--I change but in dying!

HE IS THY BROTHER.

GO, break the chains that bind the slave;

Go, set the captive free;
For Slavery's banners ne'er should wave,
And slaves should never be.
Yet not in anger. Hasty words
Should not to thee belong,
They will not loose a single link,
But bind them yet more strong.
O, while ye think to him in chains
A brother's rights are due,
Remember him who binds those chains!
He is thy brother, too!

THE WINE-DEALER'S CLERK.

CHAPTER I.

"WILL you sign the pledge?" asked one young man of another.

"No!" was the ready response; and, after a moment's pause, "You are
wrong, and I am right. You wish to deprive me of a social glass,
free companionship with those I love, life's best enjoyments, and to
live bound down to the contracted limits of a temperance-pledge.-Me
sign! No! Go ask leave of the soaring eagle to clip his wings; of
the oriole to tarnish his bright plumage; of the bounding deer to
fetter his free limbs,--but do not ask me to sign a pledge!"

The young men parted. Each went his way; one to his counting-room,
the other to his home.

The proprietors of the store with which the former was connected had
been for a number of years busily engaged in the importation,
adulteration and sale of wines and brandies. From the cellar to the
attic of their large warehouse, pipes, puncheons, and barrels of the
slow poison were deposited, with innumerable bottles of wine,
reputed to be old as a century, if not older. A box or two of
Flemish pipes relieved the sameness of the scene,--barrels on
barrels.

From the counting-room of the establishment a large number of young

men had gone forth to become either wholesale or retail dealers in
the death-drugged merchandise. The ill-success which attended these,
and the lamentable end to which they arrived, would have been
singular and mysterious, had it followed in the wake of any other
business. But, as it was, effect followed cause, and such is the law
of nature.

One, a young man of promise in days gone-by, recently became the

inmate of an alms-house in a distant city; another, urged to madness
by frequent potations, died as the fool dieth; and a third, who had
been the centre light of a social circle, as he felt the chill of
death come upon him, called all his friends near, and said to them,
"Deal not, deal not in the arrows of death, lest those arrows pierce
thine own heart at last!"

All these facts were known to the public; yet they countenanced the
traffic in which Messrs. Laneville & Co. were engaged. They were
merchants, they were wealthy; for these reasons, it would seem, the
many-headed public looked up to them with a feeling bordering on
reverence, somewhat awed by their presence, as though wealth had
made them worthy, while many a less rich but ten-fold more honest
man walked in the shadow of the mighty Magog, unseen,--uncared for,
if seen. Messrs. Laneville & Co. knew that the law was against their
business; they knew, also, that public opinion, if not actually in
favor of it, willingly countenanced it.

Perchance the cry of some unfortunate widow might at times reach

their ears; but it was speedily hushed by the charmed music of the
falling dollar, as it was exchanged for their foul poison.
Forgetting they were men, they acted as demons, and continued to
deal forth their liquid death, and to supply the thousand streams of
the city with the cause of the crime it was obliged to punish, and
the pauperism it was obliged to support.

The "Vincennes" had just arrived at the wharf as James entered the
store. It had been the custom of the owners, on the annual arrival
of this vessel, to have a party on board. On this occasion, they
made the usual arrangements for the festivity. Cards of invitation
were speedily written, and distributed among members of the city
government, editors, clergymen, and other influential persons. James
was free to invite such of his friends as he chose, and in doing so
the question arose whether he should ask George Alverton to be
present. It was known to him that George was a teetotaller, and had
that morning invited him to sign the pledge. He knew that at the
entertainment wine would circulate. He knew that some would indulge
rather freely, and that the maintenance of a perfect equilibrium by
such would be very difficult. Suppose he, himself,--that is,
James,--should be among these last mentioned, and that, too, before
his friend George; would it not demolish his favorite argument,
which he had a thousand times advanced, that he knew right from
wrong,--when to drink and when to stop drinking? yet, thought he, I
may not indulge too freely. Yes; I will maintain my position, and
show by practice what I teach by preaching. Besides, it would be
very impolite, as well as uncourteous, in me, not to invite one
whose character I value so highly as his,--one whose friendship I so
much esteem. I will invite him. He shall be present, and shall see
that I can keep sober without being pledged to do so.

CHAPTER II.

George Alverton was the son of a nobleman. Start not, republican

reader, for we mean not a stiff-starched branch of English nobility,
but one of America's noblemen,--and hers are nature's! He was a
hard-working mechanic; one of God's noblest works,--an honest man!
Americans know not, as yet, the titled honors of the Old World; and
none, save a few, whose birth-place nature must have mistook, would
introduce into a republican country the passwords of a monarchical
one.

"An invite for you," said the laughing Josephine, as George entered
at dusk. "And ten to one it's from that black-eyed Kate, who is
bewitching all the young men within a twenty-mile circuit with her
loving glances-eh? A match, ten to one!"

"Always gay," said George, as he turned half aside to avoid the

mischievous look of his sister; "but, by the way, Jos, to be
serious, an invite did you say? How do you know that?"

"O, by the way 'tis folded; we girls have a way of knowing a

love-letter from bills of exchange, and an invitation from bills of
lading. Just look at it; see how pretty 'tis enveloped, how
handsomely directed,--George Alverton, Esq., Present. It's no use,
George; you needn't look so serious. You are a captured one, and
when a bird's in a net he may as well lie still as flutter!"

Josephine handed the note to her brother, slyly winking as she did
so, as much as to say, "The marriage-bells are ringing, love."

George, observing the superscription, was convinced that it was from

James Clifton, and remarked,

"Don't be too hasty; it is from James; the direction must be wrong;

it was doubtless intended for you. Look out, Jos; you may be the
captured one, after all!"

Josephine was not to be thus thrown from her ground; so, turning to
her brother with a laugh, she said,

"For me! Well, if so 't is so; but I judge from what I see.
Notwithstanding your insinuation that James writes to no one but
myself, I'll venture a bright gold dollar that this is for yourself,
even though it be from James. Open the budget, and prove the truth
of what I say."

George untied the white ribbon that bound it, and, opening the
envelope, found an invitation to a gentleman's party to be held that
evening on board the "Vincennes." Josephine laughed merrily over
what she deemed her brother's defeat, and George as heartily over
what he deemed his victory. He was advised to go; not, however,
without an accompanying hint of its being a dry affair, as ladies
were to be excluded. Josephine was puzzled to know the reason of
their exclusiveness, and what festivity was to be engaged in of
which they could not partake.

"I scarcely know what to do," said George, "as wines will be
circulated, and I shall be asked, a dozen times or more, to drink of
them."

"Go, by all means," said his sister; "stand your own ground, be
firm, be resolute, refuse if asked to partake; but do so in a manner
that, while it shows a determination to resist temptation, will not
offend, but rather induce him you respect to think whether it will
not he best for him also to refuse."

"I will. I am aware of the situation in which James is placed. He

has a generous, a noble heart, that needs but to know the right to
do it. I will go; and if by example, persuasion or otherwise, I can
prevail upon him to sign the pledge, I will do so, and thank God for
it. I will speak to him kindly, and in reason. Others will drink, if
he does not; others will fall, if he escapes; and such examples are
the most convincing arguments that can be used to prove that an
unpledged man, in these days of temptation, is unsafe, and unmindful
of his best and dearest interests."

CHAPTER III.

Notwithstanding the short interval between the reception of the

cards and the hour of festivity, the time appointed saw a goodly
number assembled in the well-furnished, richly-decorated cabins of
the ship.

It was evident that some individuals had been busy as bees, for all
was clean and in the best of order. Wreaths of evergreen and
national flags decorated the vessel, and bouquets of bright and
fragrant flowers, conspicuously arranged, loaded the air with their
sweet perfumes. There were card-tables and cards, scores of
well-filled decanters, and glasses almost without number. At one end
of the cabin stood a table filled with fruits of the most costly
kind. There were oranges fresh from the land that gave them growth,
and other products of sunny Italy and the islands beyond the seas.
The captain was as lively as a lark, and as talkative as wit and
wine could make him. He spoke of his quick voyage, praised his ship
till praise seemed too poor to do its duty, boasted of its good
qualities, said there was not a better craft afloat, and finished
his eulogy by wishing success to all on board, and washing it down
with a glass of Madeira, which, he said, was the stuff, for he made
it himself from grapes on the island.
Messrs. Laneville & Co. were in high glee. They drank and played
cards with men worth millions; spoke of the inclemency of the
season, and expressed great surprise that so much poverty and
wretchedness existed, with one breath, and with the next extolled
the wines and administered justice to the eatables. Editors were
there who had that morning written long "leaders" about the
oppression of the poor by the rich, and longer ones about the
inconsistencies of their contemporaries, who ate and drank, and
dreamt not of inconsistency in themselves, though they guided the
press with temperance reins, and harnessed themselves with those who
tarried long at the wine.

James drank quite often, and George as often admonished him of his
danger. But the admonitions of a young man had but little if any
influence, counteracted as they were by the example of the rich and
the great about him. There was Alderman Zemp, who was a temperance
man in the world, but a wine-drinker in a ship's cabin. He had
voted for stringent laws against the sale of liquors, and had had
his name emblazoned on the pages of every professedly temperance
paper as a philanthropist and a righteous man; and on the pages of
every anti-temperance publication, as a foe to freedom, and an enemy
to the rights of humanity. But he drank; yes, he had asked James to
take a glass of the water of Italy, as he called it. Clergymen, so
called, disgraced themselves, and gave the scoffers food for
merriment. Judges who that day might have sentenced some unfortunate
to imprisonment for drinking, drank with a gusto equalled only by
lawyers who would talk an hour in court to prove a man discreditable
evidence because he was known to visit bar-rooms! It was the
influence of these, and such like, that made James drink, and caused
the labor of George to prove all unavailing. It is the example of
the rich that impedes the progress of temperance,--they who loll on
damask sofas, sip their iced champagnes and brandies, and never get
"drunk," though they are sometimes "indisposed."

The clock struck twelve, then one, and the morning hours advanced,
light-foot messengers of the coming day. The gay and the jocund
laugh was hushed, and the notes that told of festive mirth were
silenced. Nature, either fatigued by exertion or stupefied by wine,
had sank to repose; and those who had lingered too long and indulged
too freely were lying on the cabin-floor helpless. George retired
at a seasonable hour. James remained, and fell, as others, before
the enchanting wine-cup's power!

CHAPTER IV.

The next morning George called at the store of Laneville & Co. No
one was in save a small lad, who, to his inquiry, replied that all
were sick. The youth was a short, porpoise-shaped lad, who appeared
quite independent for his age and station, and told George that he
had better call the next day, as the folks would n't be down. In an
instant George suspected the cause of their absence. Though he knew
James would be mortified to be seen, yet he determined upon visiting
him, thinking it a favorable opportunity to submit to him the
expediency of taking that step which he had urged upon him on the
morning previous.

Conscious of being engaged in an act of duty, he ascended the steps

that led to the door of the house. He rang; a servant-girl answered
his call.

"Holloa!" shouted a voice at the head of the stairs. "Who's

there?-what cow's got into my pasture now? Another glass,
friends,--once more! Now drink, 'Death to the temperance cause, and
ill-luck to fanatics!' Holloa! down below,--come aloft!"

"Hush! be quiet," said a female voice, in a whisper. "James, do

respect yourself."

"Hush! who says hush? My soul's in arms; come on, John Duff! bring
liquor here, and cursed be he who says, I've had enough!"

The closing of a door put an end to this extemporaneous address.

George stood like a statue; he knew not which course to
take,--whether to go up to his friend's room, or go down to the
street. He soon determined, and sent word that he wished to speak to
James. In a moment the latter was again to be heard declaiming
disconnected sentences on all manner of subjects, until, learning
the wish of George, he shouted,

"Yes, tell him to come up and revel in the groves of Madeira, or

dance with peasant-girls at the grape-gatherings in Sicily! Yes,
George, up here, and see how a man can live a temperance life
without signing the pledge, and be as independent as he pleases!"

As George entered, James grasped his hand,--swung him round rather

familiarly, and pushed him towards a chair.

The furniture and all that was in the room was in the greatest
confusion, not excepting James Clifton himself. There was a
boot-jack and a vase of flowers side by side on the mantel; a pair
of boots on the centre-table, with two or three annuals on them, as
though to keep them from being blown away; a nice hat stood on the
hearth filled with coal-ashes, while an inkstand upside down on a
pile of linen bosoms had left an impression not easily effaced; the
paintings that were in the room were turned face towards the
wall,--some freak of James', as though ashamed to have them see the
performances.

"Now, George," said Mr. Clifton, "you can be convinced of the truth
of my doctrine. I did n't sign the pledge, and I'm as sober, sober
as a brandy-smasher! You recollect what a great poet says,--Drink
till the moon goes down. I can improve that; I say,--Drink till
yourselves go down. What an age this is, when temperance fanatics
dance through the world to smash decanters, and make one pledge
himself to be a fool! Independence is my motto! I go for
independence now, independence forever, and as much longer as
possible. Who says I am not right? Deluded mortals, who wink at sin,
and kick at brandies! Magnificent monstrosities, making manliness
moonshine; metaphysical Moors murdering Munchausen-"
"But hold, James," said George, interrupting him in his remarks;
"keep within bounds,--let us reason." It was not with much hope of
success that George asked his friend to "reason," for his condition
was one not in the least degree favorable to such a performance.

"Reason?" exclaimed James. "I'm not a reasonable,--reasoning, I

mean,--I'm not a reasoning being! Go ask the pigs to reason!"

Notwithstanding all this, George seemed inclined to argument, for he

immediately said,

"Don't you see the ill effects of last night's indulgence in the
confusion around you, and feel them in your own mind and body?"

"Now you talk like a man. Let us send the 'James-town' to Ireland
with bread and butter. 'T is a vote! passed unanimously by both
houses of Congress. We'll fire a full broadside of gingerbread at
the old Green Isle, and teach the people to eat for a living."

This rambling from the inquiry George had made induced him to
relinquish all hope of influencing him at that time. He saw how he
had fallen; and he needed no prophet's ken to behold his future
course, unless he turned from the path he was now so
enthusiastically following.

Seeing that no good could be effected by his remaining, George arose

to depart, when James caught his arm, and told him not to be in such
haste.

"I want you to take a glass of wine;" and, ringing the bell, a
servant was at the door before Mr. Alverton had an opportunity to
say or do anything.

"You know I don't drink wines," said George; "why do you ask me?"

"Don't drink?"

"You look surprised, but you know I do not."

"Everybody drinks."

"Not all, if I am one of that extensive number."

"Well, my employer sells liquors, my minister drinks his wine, and

my friends all drink, except you; and you are a sort of nondescript,
a sort of back-action member of human society, a perfect ginger-cake
without any ginger in it. Say, got a pledge in your pocket? I have;
here it is:" and he pulled forth a slip of paper, on which he had
written some half-legible lines.

"See how you like it;--it is what is called the Independent Pledge.
I'll read it.

"'We the undersigned, believing the use of wines and other liquors
beneficial to ourselves in general, and the dealers in particular,
pledge ourselves to act as we please in all matters of politics and
phrenology.'"

The servant, who yet stood at the door waiting orders, burst forth
into a loud laugh, as the reading of this was finished, while
George, though inwardly sorrowing over the situation of his friend,
could not refrain from smiling at his ridiculous appearance and
doings. There was a good humor running through the method of his
madness, that made him far from being disagreeable.

Mr. Alverton passed to the door, and, motioning the servant aside,
entreated her not to bring him wine.

"Well, sir, that be's just as he says," said she, in a loud voice,
and in a manner that convinced Mr. Alverton that she cared not as to
what might follow.

"Good!" shouted James. "Why, she's my confidential; she's as true to

me as a book. Sal, bring up two decanters of that best."

The girl laughed, and bounded out of the room to do as he requested.

The wine came; a long talk ensued, as unmeaning and useless as that
we have above related, and George left with a heavy heart, promising
to call on the morrow.

As he entered the street, and the cool, fresh air of an autumn

morning greeted him, he felt somewhat revived, and, quickening his
step, he soon reached his home. He dare not mention his adventure to
Josephine, though he wanted to. She was the betrothed of James. In
one month they were to be married! Dark and frowning were the clouds
that gathered in their blackness over the mind of George, as he
mused on what had been and what was to be. Should he tell her all?
It was his duty. Should he shrink from the performance of his duty?
No.

CHAPTER V.

"Never!" exclaimed the young lady, as she wiped her eyes, and a
smile of joy and hope burst through her tears. "George, I know he
will not go too far,--O, no! As an eagle may touch the earth, yet,
soaring again, float in its own element in the light of the sun, so
may he, though he has this once fallen, soar upward, and higher than
ever, planning not another descent so low."

"I hope it may be so," said George.

"And why not hope? You know each has an opinion of his own, but that
opinion may be changed. Though he now opposes the pledge, and the
cause of which it is the representative, yet he may think
differently, and may, through your influence, become one of its most
zealous advocates. Don't mention to him that I know of his act,"
exclaimed Josephine, springing to catch the arm of her brother, as
he opened the door to leave.

She was answered in the negative, and in the examination of a few

articles that were being prepared for her bridal-day she gradually
forgot all unpleasant misgivings, and nothing but happiness could
she see before her.

It was not until the next day that George had an opportunity of
seeing his friend. He then met him at the store, and James laughed
over the doings of the day previous as a "good joke," as he called
them. On that occasion, as on several subsequent ones, he urged him
to sign and become a total-abstinent; but, with such influences as
those which surrounded him, it was not strange that these efforts
proved ineffectual.

Weeks passed, and the hour of marriage drew nigh. The festivity was
to be one of unusual splendor and gayety. For a long time had
preparations been in progress.

It was painful for George to refer to a matter which he would not

have spoken of had it not so much concerned the welfare of a sister
whom he loved as his own self. When he mentioned the circumstances
attending the party on board the "Vincennes," she, in the fulness of
her love, excused James, and brought up a host of arguments to prove
the impossibility of a reoccurrence of any similar event.

Love is stronger than death; and, mastering all things, overlooks or

decreases the evil and enlarges the goodness of its object. It was
so in this case. Josephine's attachment to James led her to
sacrifice all other feelings and opinions to her deep affection for
him, and made her willing to stand by him or fall with him, as the
vine to the tree, bright and fresh, though the once sturdy oak lies
fallen and blighted.

The evening came, and with it many a bright and joyous heart to the
home of George Alverton. A more beautiful bride never pronounced the
bridal-vow than she who there, encircled with bright eyes and
smiling faces, gave all to James Clifton. And when it was over, when
they joined the bright galaxy that were about them and mingled with
others in the festive mirth of the hour, a life of joy and social
comfort was predicted for the hearts which that night were made
one! Music was there with its charms, Terpsichore with her graceful
motions, and everything from commencement to close was conducted in
so happy and agreeable a manner, that not a few young folks, as they
rode home, agreed to go through the same performance at their
earliest convenience.

After the usual "calls" had been attended and a few weeks had
elapsed, James and his young wife located themselves in a
dwelling-house, which was furnished in an elegant though not in an
extravagant manner. He was to continue with Messrs. Laneville & Co.
They reposed the utmost confidence in him, and considered him the
best judge of liquors in the city. On the day of his marriage they
increased his salary one third, so that his income was by no means
to be complained of. It was such as to enable him to live well, and
to lay aside quite a large amount quarterly. His prospects were
good, and no young man ever had better hopes of success.

We cannot close this chapter without referring again to the fact

that he dealt in that which made widows of wives, orphans of
children, and sent down the stream of life a rivulet of death. This
fact was like a cloud hanging over his path; and, though it was but
as a speck far up in sky, who could tell what it might become?

CHAPTER VI.

For a year the young couple were most happy. The moments flew too
quickly by; so laden were they with joy, they would have them endure
forever. "Little Jim" was a smart one, if he was n't as old as his
father, and the handsomest piece of furniture in the house! Nobody
doubted that; at least, it would n't have been well for them to have
expressed their doubts in a very audible manner, if they held any.

Tasting, trying and judging of liquors, led to a loving, sipping and

drinking of them. We may hate temperance; but it is certain we
cannot hate a good without loving a bad thing. In offering for sale
an article of food or beverage, the influence of our using it
ourselves, or not using it, goes a great ways towards our disposing
of it, or our not disposing of it. James knew this, and acted
accordingly. He always had the best of liquors in his house, as it
was often the case that, after selling a man a large amount, he
invited him home to dine. They, in turn, invited him out in the
evening, and it was often a late hour when he returned. At home the
presence of his wife prevented him from indulging too freely; but
away from home, and surrounded by gay companions, he went as full
lengths as any.

Such indulgences could not continue long without showing their

effects. George saw these, and remonstrated with him; but Josephine
could not or did not observe them. If he did not arrive home at the
customary hour, she ever had an excuse for his delay.

The arrival of another cargo of wines, etc., for Messrs. Laneville &
Co., was duly acknowledged by another carousal in the cabins of the
vessel, which ended in results far more destructive to the
reputation of James, and to the happiness of himself and friends,
than the former.

At a late hour Josephine sat waiting and watching, when the ring of
the door-bell, the movement of the servant, the mingling of several
suppressed voices, and the shuffle of footsteps on the entry-floor,
aroused her from that listless inaction which fatigue had brought
upon her. She sprang to the door of her room, and, opening it, was
about to descend, when her brother met her and requested her not to
do so.

"Why?" she inquired.

He gave no definite answer to her inquiry, but requested her to

retire for the night, saying that James would probably be home in
the morning, bright and early as the dawn.

"And not before?" she inquired, in a tone of voice that startled her
attentive brother. Then, as a stray thought of the former ship's
party and its unfortunate results came into her mind, she exclaimed,
"I must see him now! Let me know the worst. Nothing can keep me from
him. James, my James!" and, bursting from her brother's embrace, she
ran down stairs, and, notwithstanding the remonstrance of her
friends, opened the door where half a dozen men and her husband had
gathered.

James lay upon a sofa, nearly unconscious of what was transpiring

around him. Josephine caught the hand that hung loosely at his side,
threw herself on the floor beside him, smoothed back his dishevelled
hair, and kissed his flushed cheek.

"James, James!" exclaimed she. He opened his eyes, gazed for a

moment listlessly upon her, then closed them again. "O, James! don't
you know me? James! say,--wake thee, dearest!"

She pressed his hand in her own, and, as the tears fell freely from
her eyes, so unused to weep, she continued her calls upon him who
lay insensate before her. She whispered in his ear the breathings of
her heart, or in louder tones gave vent to the grief that wounded
it.

Vainly did friends beseech her to retire; vainly did they tell her
she could not hasten his restoration to reason. She declared her
determination to remain with him till morning.

Day dawned. There, at the side of her husband, sat the faithful
wife, as neglective of her own wants as she was attentive to his.
James began to realize his condition, but not fully. He had vague
ideas of being in his own house, but his mind was at times
wandering, and his words betrayed its condition.

"Here I am," said he, "in a paradise, with an angel at my side, and
beauty and rich fragrance all around me. See you how that diamond
sparkles at the bottom of this brook flowing at my feet! Watch that
dove as it comes down from the sky! See, it nestles in my angel's
bosom. See how it folds its wings! See how she smooths down its
ruffled plumage, and, hark ye, listen to its plaintive cooing! My
angel, my sweet one, come near me, let me whisper in thine ear. Go,
bring me that bunch of luscious grapes which is suspended on that
sapphire cloud, and make me wine of them that gods might envy! Ah,
see, she goes,--she wings her flight,--she grasps the rich fruit,--she
comes! She presses the grapes, and here is wine,--from where? From
paradise! Droop not, droop not, droop not, spirit of light! Do not
weep! What are you weeping for? Here, let me wipe those tears away.
Ah, they are pearls, they are not tears! I thought they were
tears.-Going so soon?-Gone?"

He sank into a quiet sleep. Josephine had wept as she caught his
words partly uttered in a whisper so low as to be scarcely
distinguishable. Now, as he slept, she watched his breathings, and
hoped that when he awoke he would be of a sane mind, and that a
realization of what had occurred might influence his future career
for the better.
CHAPTER VII.

"News!" exclaimed Capt. Thorndyke, as he shook the hand of his

friend Basyl. "Have you not heard it? Why, it's common talk. Young
Clifton imbibes rather too freely. You know him,--Laneville & Co.'s
clerk,--best judge of liquors in the states; strange that he will
imbibe."

"Strange indeed, very strange, if he is really a judge and knows

what they're made of," said Basyl; "and stranger yet that he will
sell. For my part, I consider a man that will sell liquor, in these
days of light and knowledge, as bad as a highwayman, and no better
than a pirate."

"Rather plain spoken."

"I know it, but, look ye, there's Follet, a fine man, a first-rate
man, once worth half a million, but now not worth a guinea-pig. The
man that sold him good wine in his better days sells him poor
whiskey now; and the confounded dealer in fancy poisons has taken
the houses of Mr. Follet, brick by brick, and piled them up in his
own yard, so to speak. Why, no longer ago than yesternight, he took
a fine black coat of Dick Pherson, and gave him in return a coarse,
brown one and a glass of sin-gin, I mean. Fudge! talk about
consistency! That rumseller is nominated for an alderman, and he'll
be elected. He's rich; and all your say-so temperance men will vote
for him, and when elected he'll go hand-in-hand with some lone star,
who deems it advisable that men should be licensed to corrupt the
morals of the community, in order to make it wise and virtuous!"

The captain acknowledged that his friend had a right view of the
matter, and, as he bade him good-day, promised to take care of his
vote at the coming election.

We doubt whether any man ever felt more deeply sensible of the wrong
committed than did James, as he, the next morning, awaking from his
long sleep, beheld his wife standing at his side, now weeping over
him, now joyous and smiling at his returned consciousness, and
closely attentive to his every want. He felt himself unworthy of
such kindness, and for the first time in his life saw the evil of
the doctrine he had all his lifetime advocated, namely, that a man
can drink enough and not too much; in other words, that he can guide
his evil passions as he will, and command them to stop in their
course, nor trespass on forbidden ground.

But James even yet was opposed to the pledge, and, though George
presented it with strong arguments, he refused to sign it, and
laughed at the idea of his ever getting the worse for liquor again.

The employer of James Clifton had his name on the same ticket with
that of the rumseller before mentioned, as a candidate for mayor.
Election-day came. The two political parties had their tickets in
the hands of scores of distributors. There was a third party, with
its ticket, the caption of which-"Temperance Men and Temperance
Measures"-was bandied about with gibes and sneers by the prominent
men of both other parties.
Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceedingly
prepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the winning manner he
possessed, disposed of a large number of tickets, even to men of the
opposing party. "Vote for Laneville! vote for Laneville!" was his
constant cry, save when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed the
ability and worthiness of his candidate. Some said he was urged on
by selfish motives; that, as he was a clerk of Laneville's, the
election of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary benefit.
But James Clifton cared for none of these insinuations.

"Well, deacon, my dear, dear deacon, who do you vote for?" inquired
a stanch teetotaller, as an old gentleman approached. The person
addressed, after a little hesitation, during which a few nervous
twinges of the mouth betrayed his nervousness of conscience, and the
debate going on in his heart between consistency and principles on
the one side, and party names and measures on the other, replied,
"Well, well,"-then a pause,--"well, I don't know; go for the best
man, I s'pose."

"Here's the ticket, sir! the best man, sir, is Laneville! vote for
Laneville!" shouted James, as he thrust his ticket into the hands of
the old gentleman, and, laying hold of his arm, led him into the
room, and saw him deposit the vote of a temperance advocate for a
rumseller! James laughed well over his victory, while the
distributors of the temperance tickets felt somewhat ill at ease in
seeing him whom they thought their truest friend desert them in the
hour of need, and give his vote and influence for the other party.

The day ended; the votes were counted, and Laneville was proclaimed
elected by a majority of one!

The night was one of carousal. The betting on both sides had been
considerable, and the payment of these debts caused the small change
to circulate pretty freely among the dispensers of eatables and
drinkables.

This night James yielded more easily than ever before to the
cravings of an appetite that began to master him.

Poor fellow! Deluded man! A fond, a devoted, a trusting wife waiting

at home, watching the hands of the clock as they neared the mark of
twelve, and listening for thy footfall! Thou, trusting in thine own
strength, but to learn thy weakness, lying senseless among thy
drinking mates in the hall of dissolute festivity!

Tom Moore may sing in praise of "wine and its sparkling tide;" but
the sighing of wronged women and their tears shall toll the requiem
of its praise.

CHAPTER VIII.
Notwithstanding the entreaties of George, added to those of
Josephine, James continued in the way he had begun to walk, and
which was leading him to ruin. The arguments of the one, and the
tears of the other, were equally unavailing.

So far had he proceeded in a downward course that his employers

remonstrated; and the same arguments they had used upon their former
clerks were urged upon his consideration. Fearing the loss of
situation, he repented, but it was only to fall again before the
power of that appetite with which he had tampered as with a torpid
viper, which now felt the warmth of his embrace, and became a
living, craving creature within his bosom.

His old companions perceived the change he was undergoing, and, like
butterflies that hovered about his path in sunshine, left him as
clouds overshadowed his way. But he had friends who would not leave
him. He had a wife who clung to him with all the affection of
woman's love, and a brother whose hand was ever extended to aid him.

James saw the evil that threatened to overwhelm him; yet, strangely
infatuated, he would not come to a fixed determination to reform so
far as to sign the pledge.

The sun never shone with a brighter effulgence than it did on the
morning of the 24th of July, 1849. The streets of Boston were filled
with busy crowds, and banners and flags streamed from balconies and
windows. Delegates of men from the suburbs poured into the city, and
the sound of music filled the air. Men, women, and children, the
rich and the poor, the merchant and the mechanic, the American and
the foreigner, joined in the movement; and a stranger could not long
remain ignorant of the fact that some great event was to transpire
that day in the capital of the Old Bay State. Crowds gathered at the
corners, and lined the principal thoroughfares.

"He has blist his own country, an' now he will bliss ours," said a
well-dressed Irishman.

"An' that he will," was the response; "an' God bliss Father Mathew!"

"Amen," said half a dozen voices.

"He's coming!" exclaimed another. The sound of distant music was

heard, and far up the street was seen approaching a dense mass of
people. White banners mingled with the stars and stripes. Nearer
they approached, and more distinct became, to the Irishman and his
friends, the peals of music and the hurras of the multitude.

THEOBALD MATHEW, the friend of Ireland, was making his entry into
Boston! Never man was more gladly welcome. Never was man more
enthusiastically received. It seemed as though all men strove to do
him homage, for they looked upon one who was the instrument, under
God, of saving five millions of human beings from the greatest curse
sin brought into the world; lifting them, and bidding them stand up
as their Maker intended they should.

The "apostle" was seated in an open barouche, with his head

uncovered, bowing to the crowds of stout men and fair women that
filled the windows on either side, often shaking hands with those
who pressed near him to do so.
A young man stood upon the side-walk watching its approach; and when
the carriage in which he was seated came near where he stood, he
took off his hat, pressed through the assemblage, and, urging his
way towards it, grasped the hand that was extended to him. The
carriage stopped. Father Mathew arose, and, as his hand lay upon the
head of the young man, he repeated the words of a pledge, which the
latter, in a distinct tone, repeated after him. At its close, the
words "I do!" were heard far and near, and James Clifton had taken
the pledge!

This was done from no sudden impulse. During the previous week he
had indulged rather freely, and when its effects were over he began
for the first time to give serious thought upon the question whether
it was not required of him to become a pledged man. He was becoming
convinced that he was unsafe. He knew how often he had fallen, how
liable he was to fall again, and that it might be never to rise. He
found his companions did not look upon him with as much respect as
formerly; and he determined to break down the pride of opinion,
rather than have it break him down.

As he thought of his situation at Messrs. Laneville & Co.'s, he for

a moment drew back, yet it was but for a moment. He resolved to
leave it, and beg rather than continue to disgrace himself and bring
ruin upon his relatives and friends. He was cheered by the thought
that he had those around him who would furnish him with employment
suited to his mind, and in the steady pursuit of which he might live
well. This resolution was made a few days previous to the twenty-
fourth, but he communicated it to no one.

James hurried from the crowd that gathered around him, and hastened
to his home. The glad news preceded him, and his wife, meeting him
at the door, caressed, blessed and welcomed him. George grasped his
hand, and James, with tears in his eyes, asked pardon for the past,
and promised much for the future.

"Once," said he, "I refused to sign. I trusted to my own self, and
thought because I was young and strong I could resist temptation. I
said I would not make myself a slave to a pledge, and clung to my
promise till I found myself a slave to an appetite. I ask your
pardon, George, for the manner in which I treated your request."

"I grant it."

"Then I am happy, we are happy, and the future shall redeem the
past."

The door opened, and a bright-eyed boy, bounding into the room,
sprang upon his father, and, with a smile, said, "Father, I'm a
Cadet of Temperance! We formed a little society this morning, 'cause
Father Mathew has come to Boston. We've got six names, and we are to
have more."

James kissed his child, and encouraged him to go on in the cause he

had so early espoused.

Messrs. Laneville & Co. engaged a new clerk,--a young man of

seventeen, hopeful, promising. He had heard of the fate of his
predecessors, of the narrow escape of him whose place he was being
trained to fill; but, like them and him, he thought himself stronger
than the tempter at his side. That firm is in the home-desolating
business to-day, though James has used much endeavor to induce them
to relinquish it. The young man is there to-day, open to temptations
which have conquered many strong men, have destroyed many mighty.
The pledge is with us to-day, open for those who have fallen, for
those who yet stand,--an instrument of God, in human hands, to rescue
the one and to preserve the other.

ANGELINA.

BLUE-EYED child, with flaxen ringlets,

'Neath my window played, one day;
And its tiny song of gladness,
Sounded like an angel's lay.
Roses bright in beauty blossomed
Round the path the cherub trod
Yet it seemed that child was fairest,
Freshest from the hand of God.
Watched I her till hour of sunset
Told me of the coming night,
And the sun o'er rock and mountain
Shed its flood of golden light.
Yet she gambolled, though the dew-drops
Fell upon her thick and fast;
Fearing ill, I went and told her,--
Dearest child, the day hath past:
"Haste thee to thy home,--there waiting
Is thy parent, thee to bless."
Then she hasted from the play-ground,
To her mother's fond caress.
Stars shone forth in all their splendor,
And the moon with silver light
Rose in beauty, and presided
Queen o'er all the hosts of night.
Days had passed; I had not seen her,
Had not heard her merry laugh,
Nor those joyous tones that told me
Of the joy her spirit quaffed.
Vain I asked whence Angelina
Had departed,--none could tell;
Feared I then that sorrow gathered
O'er the child I loved so well.
Funeral train passed by my window,--
Banished were all thoughts of mirth;
And I asked of one who lingered,
"Who hath passed to heaven from earth?"
In his eye a tear-drop glistened,
As he, turning, to me said,
"Heaven now holds another angel,--
 Little Angelina's dead!"
I could scarce believe the tidings,
Till I stood above her grave,
And beheld those flaxen ringlets,
That so late did buoyant wave,
Lie beside a face whose features
Still in death did sweetly smile
And methought angelic beauty
Lingered on her cheeks the while.
At the pensive hour of twilight,
Oft do angel-footsteps tread
Near her grave, and flowers in beauty
Blossom o'er the early dead;
And a simple marble tablet
Thence doth unassuming rise,
And these simple words are on it,--
"Here our Angelina lies."
Oft at night, when others slumber,
One bends o'er that holy spot;
And the tear-drops fall unnumbered
O'er her sad yet happy lot.
Friends, though oft they mourn her absence,
Do in meek submission bow;
For a voice from heaven is whispering,
"Angelina's happy now."

FAREWELL, MY NATIVE LAND.

Written for KAH-GE-GA-GAI-BOWH, a representative from the Northwest

Tribes of American Indians to the Peace Convention in Frankfort-on-the-
Maine, Germany; and recited by him on board the British steamship
Niagara, at the hour of sailing from Boston, July 10th, 1850.

THE day is brightening which we long have sought;

I see its early light and hail its dawn;
The gentle voice of Peace my ear hath caught,
And from my forest-home I greet the morn.
Here, now, I meet you with a brother's hand-
Bid you farewell-then speed me on my way
To join the white men in a foreign land,
And from the dawn bring on the bright noon-day.
Noon-day of Peace! O, glorious jubilee,
When all mankind are one, from sea to sea.
Farewell, my native land, rock, hill, and plain!
River and lake, and forest-home, adieu!
Months shall depart ere I shall tread again
Amid your scenes, and be once more with you.
I leave thee now; but wheresoe'er I go,
Whatever scenes of grandeur meet my eyes,
My heart can but one native country know,
 And that the fairest land beneath the skies.
America! farewell, thou art that gem,
Brightest and fairest in earth's diadem.
Land where my fathers chased the fleeting deer;
Land whence the smoke of council-fires arose;
Land whose own warriors never knew a fear;
Land where the mighty Mississippi flows;
Land whose broad surface spreads from sea to sea;
Land where Niagara thunders forth God's praise;--
May Peace and Plenty henceforth dwell with thee,
And o'er thee War no more its banner raise!
Adieu, my native land,--hill, stream, and dell!
The hour hath come to part us,--fare thee well.

UNLEARNED TO LOVE.

HE hath unlearned to love; for once he loved

A being whom his soul almost adored,
And she proved faithless; turned in scorn upon
His heart's affections; to another gave
The love she once did pledge as all his own.
And now he doth not love. Within his heart
Hate dwells in sullen silence. His soul broods
Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes.
Fancy no more builds airy castles.
Amid the crowd he passes on alone.
The branches wave no more to please his eye,
And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him.
The murmuring brook but murmurs discontent,
And all his life is death since Love hath fled.
O, who shall count his sorrows? who shall make
An estimate of his deep, burning woes,
And place them all in order, rank on rank?
Language is weak to tell the heart's deep, wrongs.
We think, and muse, and in our endless thought
We strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength,
The undefinable extent of spirit grief,
And fail to accomplish the herculean task.

WHAT WAS IT?

 IT was a low, black, miserable place;
Its roof was rotting; and above it hung
A cloud of murky vapor, sending down
Intolerable stench on all around.
The place was silent, save the creaking noise,
The steady motion of a dozen pumps,
That labored all the day, nor ceased at night.
Methought in it I heard a hundred groans;
Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans;
Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish lust
Of men for gold; woe echoing woe,
And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair.
Around the place a dozen hovels stood,
Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all;
Their windows had no glass, but rags and boards,
Torn hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash.
Beings, once men and women, in and out
Passed and repassed from darkness forth to light;
And children, ragged, dirty, and despised,
Clung to them. Children! heaven's early flowers,
In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost!
Children! those jewels of a parent's crown,
Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust.
Children! Heaven's representatives to man,
Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate,
And errand-boys to run at Sin's command.
I asked why thus it was; and one old man
Pushed up the visor of his cap, and said:
"That low, black building is the cause of all."
And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill,
And what the name of that low building was?
Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines,
And if he does not tell thee right, at first,
Then come to me and you shall know its name.

LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING.

THERE is nothing from which more real enjoyment can be derived than
the art of letter-writing. All praise to the inventive genius that
gave to man a written language, and with it the implements with
which to talk across the world! Did you ever think, reader, what a
world this would be without pen, ink, and paper? Then, the absence
of friends were painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, bade
our acquaintances "good-by," and saw the last, far-distant wave of
the parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we thought we
should never hear from them till we met face to face-perhaps never.
But, as it is, when friends leave, we expect a message from their
hearts soon, to solace our own. How we watch, and how we hope! What
a welcome rap is the postman's! With what eagerness we loosen the
seal; with what pleasure we read, from date to signature, every
word!

It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to examine

the various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a brief half-hour
with those who have by their letters made grave or gay impressions
on the public mind.

Some write letters with great ease; others, with great difficulty.
Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There have been
published six large volumes of letters written by her; besides
these, she left twelve quarto volumes of letters to a publisher of
London, and these, it is said, are but a twelfth part of her
correspondence. It seems as though she must have written nothing but
letters, so many and various were they; but her fame as an authoress
will convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem an
impossibility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that
of the steam-writing machine, Dumas, of the present time.

Lord Peterborough had such a faculty for this kind of composition,

that, when ambassador to Turin, according to Pope, who says he was a
witness of the performance, he employed nine amanuenses, who were
seated in a room, around whom Lord Peterborough walked and dictated
to each what he should write. These nine wrote to as many different
persons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects; yet the
ambassador retained in his mind the connection of each letter so
completely as to close each in a highly-finished and appropriate
manner.

These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. In

contradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent Latin
writers, who actually bestowed several months of close attention
upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says: "Such is the defect of
education among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubled
to keep up any correspondence; because they cannot write. A princess
of great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informed
that she was learning to write; and hoped, in the course of time, to
acquire the art of correspondence."

There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult task of
their existence to write a letter. They follow the old Latin
writers, and make a labor of what with others is a recreation. They
begin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand," as though
a letter could be written without doing so. Then follows, "to inform
you that I am well, and hope this will find you the same." There is
a period-a full stop; and there are instances of persons going no
further, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT."

This "difficulty" arises not from an inability, but from an

excessive nicety-a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good,
sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interesting, the writer
must transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly as
the rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of the
lens through which it acts upon the silvered plate. Seneca says, "I
would have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk
together, unstudied and easy."

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters
from Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as they
should be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of their
popularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters of
Cicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de
S�vign�, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are
generally received as some of the best specimens extant of
epistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of
brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit without
buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one of
them by subscribing himself his friend's "afflicted, headachey,
sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB."

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities in

the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a
good example of this kind of correspondence. Mrs. Foote became
embarrassed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed in
prison; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows:

"DEAR SAM: I am in prison for debt; come, and assist your loving
mother, E. FOOTE.

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the

law, for he answered as follows:

"DEAR MOTHER:-So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to his

loving mother by her affectionate son,

"SAM FOOTE.

"P. S.-I have sent my attorney to assist you; in the mean time, let
us hope for better days."

These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady,

who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection,
&c., &c.:

"I write to you because I have nothing to do; I end my letter

because I have nothing to say."

But these are left far in the rear by the correspondence of two
Quakers, the one living in Edinburgh, the other in London. The
former, wishing to know whether there was anything new in London,
wrote in the corner of a letter-sheet a small interrogation note,
and sent it to his friend. In due time he received an answer. He
opened the sheet and found, simply, O, signifying that there was
none.

In the London Times of January 3d, 1820, is the following,

purporting to be a copy of a letter sent to a medical gentleman:

"CER: Yole oblige me uf yole kum un ce me. I hev a Bad kowld, am

Hill in my Bow Hills, and hev lost my Happy Tight."

William Cowper, the poet, being on very familiar terms with the Rev.
Mr. Newton, amused himself and his friend with a letter, of which
the following is a copy:

"MY VERY DEAR FRIEND: I am going to send, what, when you have read,
you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows,
whether what I have got be verse or not; by the tune and the time,
it ought to be rhyme; but if it be, did you ever see, of late or of
yore, such a ditty before?

"I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but as well as I could, in
hopes to do good; and if the reviewers should say, 'To be sure the
gentleman's muse wears methodist shoes, you may know by her pace,
and talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard for
the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and hoydening play, of
the modern day; and though she assume a borrowed plume, and now and
then wear a tittering air, 't is only her plan to catch, if she can,
the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a production on a new
construction; she has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all that may
come, with a sugar-plum.' His opinion in this will not be amiss; 't
is what I intend my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks
should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, I shall
think I am paid for all I have said, and all I have done, though I
have run, many a time, after rhyme, as far as from hence, to the end
of my sense, and, by hook or crook, write another book, if I live
and am here, another year.

"I heard before of a room, with a floor laid upon springs, and such
like things, with so much art, in every part, that when you went in,
you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace,
swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of state, in a
figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any such thing; and now
I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will make you dance, and, as you
advance, will keep you still, though against your will, dancing
away, alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I have penned;
which that you may do ere madam and you are quite worn out with
jigging about, I take my leave; and here you receive a bow profound,
down to the ground, from your humble me,

"W. C."

At one of those famous coteries, so fashionable in the time of

George Selwyn, Selwyn declared that a lady never closed a letter
without a postscript. One of his fair auditors defended her sex by
saying that her next letter should prove he was wrong. Soon after,
Selwyn received a letter from the lady, in which, after the name,
was "P. S. Who is right now, you or I?"

"We have met the enemy, and they are ours" is an example for naval
letters. Commodore Walton's letter, by which he gave information of
his capture of a number of Spanish vessels of war, was as follows:

"We have taken or destroyed all the enemy's ships or vessels on the
coast, as per margin."

General Taylor's letters are of the same class,--brief and to the

point.

As a specimen of ultra-familiarity, see the Duke of Buckingham's

letter to King James the First, which he commences as follows:

"DEAR DAD AND GOSSIP,"

and concludes thus:--

"Your Majesty's most humble slave and dog,

"STINIE."

Some letters have been distinguished for a play upon words. The
following is supposed to have been written by one Zebel Rock, a
stone-cutter, to a young lady for whom he cherished a love somewhat
more than Platonic:

"DIVINE FLINT: Were you not harder than Porphyry or Agate, the
Chisel of my love, drove by the Mallet of my fidelity, would have
made some impression on thee. I, that have shaped as I pleased the
most untoward of substances, hoped by the Compass of reason, the
Plummet of discretion, the Saw of constancy, the soft File of
kindness, and the Polish of good words, to have modelled you into
one of the prettiest Statues in the world; but, alas! I find you are
a Flint, that strikes fire, and sets my soul in a blaze, though your
heart is as cold as marble. Pity my case, pray, madam, for I know
not what I say or do. If I go to make a Dragon, I strike out a
Cupid; instead of an Apothecary's Mortar, I make a Church Font for
Baptism; and, dear Pillar of my hopes, Pedestal of my comfort, and
Cornice of my joy, take compassion upon me, for upon your pity I
build all my hope, and will, if fortunate, erect Statues, Obelisks
and Pyramids, to your generosity."

As a specimen of alliteration the following may be considered a fair

off-hand epistle of love:

"ADORED AND ANGELIC AMELIA: Accept An Ardent And Artless Amorist's

Affections; Alleviate An Anguished Admirer's Alarms, And Answer An
Amorous Applicant's Avowed Ardor. Ah, Amelia! All Appears An Awful
Aspect; Ambition, Avarice, And Arrogance, Alas, Are Attractive
Allurements, And Abuse An Ardent Attachment. Appease An Aching And
Affectionate Adorer's Alarms, And Anon Acknowledge Affianced
Albert's Alliance As Agreeable And Acceptable. Anxiously Awaiting An
Affectionate And Affirmative Answer, Accept An Ardent Admirer's
Aching Adieu. ALBERT."

The custom of espionage among some nations, which led the government
officials' to open all letters supposed to contain matters at
variance with the plans and purposes of their masters, induced the
inventive to contrive various means of correspondence.

One of the most singular of these was that adopted by Histaus, the
Milesian, as related by Herodotus. Histaus was "kept by Darius at
Susa, under an honorable pretence, and, despairing of his return
home, unless he could find out some way that he might be sent to
sea, he purposed to send to Aristagoras, who was his substitute at
Miletum, to persuade his revolt from Darius; but, knowing that all
passages were stopped and studiously watched, he took this course:
he got a trusty servant of his, the hair of whose head he caused to
be shaved off, and then, upon his bald head, he wrote his mind to
Aristagoras; kept him privately about him, till his hair was
somewhat grown, and then bid him haste to Aristagoras, and bid him
cause him to be shaved again, and then upon his head he should find
what his lord had written to him."

A volume might be written of the Curiosities of Letter-writing, and

it would be by no means an uninteresting production. Years ago, when
New England missionaries first taught the wild men of the South Sea
Islands, it so happened that one of the teachers wished to
communicate with a friend, and having no pen, ink and paper at hand,
he picked up a chip and wrote with a pencil his message. A native
conveyed it, and, receiving some article in return, he thought the
chip endowed with some miraculous power, and could he have obtained
it would doubtless have treasured it as a god, and worshipped it.
And so would seem to us this invaluable art of letter-writing, were
we in like ignorance. We forget to justly appreciate a blessing
while we have it in constant use; but let us be for a short time
deprived of it, and then we lament its loss and realize its worth.
Deprive mankind of pen, ink and paper, obliterate from the human
mind all knowledge of letter-writing,--then estimate, if you can,
thee loss that would accrue.

The good resulting from a general intercommunication of thought

among the people has brought about a great reduction in the rates of
postage. We look forward to the time when the tens of millions now
expended in war, and invested in the ammunition of death, shall be
directed into other channels, and postage shall be free. What better
defence for our nation than education? It is better than forts and
vessels of war; better than murderous guns, powder and ball. Hail to
the day when there shall be no direct tax on the means of education!

A VISION OF REALITY.

I HAD a dream: Methought one came

And bade me with him go;
I followed, till, above the world,
I wondering gazed below.
One moment, horror filled my breast;
Then, shrinking from the sight,
I turned aside, and sought for rest,
Half dying with affright.
My guide with zeal still urged me on;
"See, see!" said he, "what sin hath done;
How mad ambition fills each breast,
And mortals spurn their needed rest,
And all their lives and fortunes spend
To gain some darling, wished-for end;
And scarce they see the long-sought prize,
When each to grasp it fails and dies."
Once more I looked: in a lonely room,
On a pallet of straw, were lying
A mother and child; no friends were near,
Yet that mother and child were dying.
A sigh arose; she looked above,
And she breathed forth, "I forgive;"
She kissed her child, threw back her head,
And the mother ceased to live.
The child's blue eyes were raised to watch
Its mother's smile of love;
She was not there,--her child she saw
From her spirit-home above.
An hour passed by: that child had gone
From earth and all its harms;
Yet, as in sleep, it nestling lay
In its dead mother's arms.
I asked my guide, "What doth this mean?"
He spake not a word, but changed the scene.
I stood where the busy throng
Was hurrying by; all seemed intent,
As on some weighty mission sent;
And, as I asked what all this meant,
A drunkard pass�d by.
He spake,--I listened; thus spake he:
"Rum, thou hast been a curse to me;
My wife is dead,--my darling child,
Who, when 't was born, so sweetly smiled,
And seemed to ask, in speechless prayer,
A father's love, a father's care,--
He, he, too, now is gone!
How can I any longer live?
What joy to me can earth now give?
I've drank full deep from sorrow's cup,--
When shall I drink its last dregs up?
When will the last, last pang be felt?
When the last blow on me be dealt?
Would I had ne'er been born!"
As thus he spake, a gilded coach
In splendor pass�d by;
And from within a man looked forth,--
The drunkard caught his eye.
Then, with a wild and frenzied look,
He, trembling, to it ran;
He stayed the rich man's carriage there,
And said, "Thou art the man!
"Yes, thou the man! You bade me come,
You took my gold, you gave me rum;
You bade me in the gutter lie,
My wife and child you caused to die;
You took their bread,--'t was justly theirs;
You, cunning, laid round me your snares,
Till I fell in them; then you crushed,
And robbed me, as my cries you hushed;
You've bound me close in misery's thrall;
Now, take a drunkard's curse and fall!"
A moment passed, and all was o'er,--
He who'd sold rum would sell no more
And Justice seemed on earth to dwell,
When by his victim's hand he fell.
Yet, when the trial came, she fled,
And Law would have the avenger dead.
The gilded coach may rattle by,
Men too may drink, and drunkards die,
And widows' tears may daily fall,
And orphans' voices daily call,--
Yet these are all in vain;
The dealer sells, and glass by glass
He tempts the man to ruin pass,
And piles on high his slain.
 His fellows fall by scores,--what then?
He, being rich (though rich by fraud),
Is honored by his fellow-men,
Who bend the knee and call him "lord."

Again I turned;

Enough I'd learned

Of all the misery sin hath brought;
I strove to leave the fearful spot,
And wished the scene might be forgot,
'T was so with terror fraught.

I wished to go,

No more to know.
I turned me, but no guide stood there;
Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay,
When, lo! the vision passed away,--
I found me seated in my chair.
The morning sun was shining bright,
Fair children gambolled in my sight;
A rose-bush in my window stood,
And shed its fragrance all around;
My eye saw naught but fair and good,
My ear heard naught but joyous sound.
I asked me, can it be on earth
Such scenes of horror have their birth,
As those that in my vision past,
And on my mind their shadows cast?
Can it be true, that men do pour
Foul poison forth for sake of gold?
And men lie weltering in their gore,
Led on by that their brethren sold?
Doth man so bend the supple knee
To Mammon's shrine, he never hears
The voice of conscience, nor doth see
His ruin in the wealth he rears?
Such questions it were vain to ask,
For Reason whispers, "It is so;"
While some in fortune's sunshine bask,
Others lie crushed beneath their woe.
And men do sell, and men do pour,
And for their gold return men death;
Though wives and children them implore,
With tearful eyes and trembling breath,
And hearts with direst anguish riven,
No more to sell,--'t is all in vain;
They, urged to death, by avarice driven,
But laugh and turn to sell again.

JEWELS OF THE HEART.

THERE are jewels brighter far
Than the sparkling diamonds are;
Jewels never wrought by art,--
Nature forms them in the heart!
Would ye know the names they hold
Ah! they never can be told
In the language mortals speak!
Human words are far too weak
Yet, if you would really know
What these jewels are, then go
To some low, secluded cot,
Where the poor man bears his lot!
Or, to where the sick and dying
'Neath the ills of life are sighing.
And if there some one ye see
Striving long and patiently
To alleviate the pain,
Bring the light of hope again!
One whose feet do lightly tread,
One whose hands do raise the head,
One who watches there alone,
Every motion, every tone;
Unaware an eye doth see
All these acts of charity.
Know that in that lonely cot,
Where the wealth of earth is not,
These bright jewels will be found,
Shedding love and light around!
Say, shall gems and rubies rare
With these heart-shrined gems compare?
Constancy, that will not perish,
But the thing it loveth cherish,
Clinging to it fondly ever,
Fainting, faltering, wavering, never!
Trust, that will not harbor doubt;
Putting fear and shame to rout,
Making known how, free from harm,
Love may rest upon its arm.
Hope, that makes the future bright,
Though there come a darksome night;
And, though dark despair seems nigh,
Bears the soul up manfully!
These are gems that brighter shine
Than they of Golconda's mine.
Born amid love's fond caresses,
Cradled in the heart's recesses,
They will live when earth is old,
Marble crumble, perish gold!
Live when ages shall have past,
While eternity shall last;
Be these gems the wealth you share,
Friends of mind, where'er you are!
LIGHT FROM A BETTER LAND.

HERE at thy grave I stand,

But not in tears;
Light from a better land
Banishes fears.
Thou art beside me now,
Whispering peace;
Telling how happy thou
Found thy release!
Thou art not buried here;
Why should I mourn?
All that I cherished dear
Heavenward hath gone!
Oft from that world above
Come ye to this;
Breathing in strains of love
Unto me bliss!

POOR AND WEARY!

IN a low and cheerless cot

Sat one mourning his sad lot;
All day long he'd sought for labor;
All day long his nearest neighbor
Lived in affluence and squandered
Wealth, while he an outcast wandered,
And the night with shadowy wing
Heard him this low moaning sing:
"Sad and weary, poor and weary,
Life to me is ever dreary!"
Morning came; there was no sound
Heard within. Men gathered round,
Peering through the window-pane;
They saw a form as if 't were lain
Out for burial. Stiff and gaunt
Lay the man who died in want.
And methought I heard that day
Angel voices whispering say,
"No more sad, poor and weary,
Life to me no more is dreary!"
THE BANDBOX MOVEMENT.

"THERE! Mr. McKenzie, I declare! You are the most oncommon, oncivil
man I ever sot eyes on!"

"Peace, my lady! I'll explain."

"Then do so."

"You must know, then, that I have a perfect hatred of bandboxes,--so

great, in fact, that if I see one on the walk, I involuntarily raise
my foot and kick it."

"So it appears," chimed in Mrs: McKenzie, with a significant hunch

of the right shoulder.

"Therefore,--"

"Well, go on! what you waitin' for?"

"Therefore, when I saw Arabella's bandbox in the entry, as I came

down, sitting, as it did, directly at the foot of the stairs, I
jumped on it, thinking I would come over it that time--"

"An' crushed a new spring bonnet, that cost-let me see!"

"No matter!" said Mr. McKenzie; "that will be in the bill."

Mr. McKenzie, having said thus much, placed his hat on his head and
rushed from the house, fearful of another onslaught of "oncommon
oncivilities."

A little shop at the North End,--seven men seated round said shop,--a
small dog growling at a large cat, a large cat making a noise
resembling that produced by root-beer confined in a stone bottle by
a cork bound down with a piece of twine. Reader, imagine you see and
hear all this!

[Enter Mr. McKenzie.] "Gentlemen, something must be done to demolish

the idea held by the 'rest of mankind' that they, the women, cannot
exist without owning as personal property an indefinite number of
bandboxes. I therefore propose that we at once organize for the
purpose; that a committee be appointed to draft resolutions, and
report a name for the confederacy."

Voted unanimously; whereupon, a committee being appointed, after a

short session, reported the following "whereas, etc."

"Whereas, WE, in our perambulations up and down the earth, are

frequently, oftentimes, and most always, beset with annoyances of
various kinds; and, as the greatest, most perplexing, most
troublesome and iniquitous of these, generally assumes the shape of
a bandbox, in a bag or out of one; and, whereas, our wives, our
daughters, our sisters, and our female acquaintances generally and
particularly, manifest a determination to put said boxes in our way,
at all times, and under all circumstances, therefore

"Resolved, That-we-wont-stand-it-any-longer!!!

"Resolved, That we form ourselves into a society for the purpose of

annihilating this grievous evil, and all bandboxes, of every size
and nature.

"Resolved, That this society be known by the name of 'The Bandbox

Extermination Association.'"

The chairman of the committee made a few remarks, in which he stated

that, in the performance of the duties which would devolve upon the
members, they would, doubtless, meet with some opposition. "But,
never mind," said he; "it is a glorious cause, and if we get the
tongs at one time, and the hearth-brush another time, let 'em come!"
He defined the duties of members to be,--first and foremost, to pay
six and a quarter cents to defray expenses; to demolish a bandbox
wherever and whenever there should be one; (for instance, if a fat
woman was racing for the cars, with a bandbox in her arms, that box
should be forcibly taken and burned on the spot, or whittled into
such minute particles that it could no more be seen; if, in an
omnibus warranted to seat twelve, fifteen men are congregated, and
an individual attempts to enter with a bandbox, the box shall have
notice to quit.)

"The manner of demolition," he said, further, "might be variously

defined. If the owner was a nervous lady, to kick the box would
wound her feelings, and it were best to apparently unintentionally
seat yourself on it; then beg a thousand pardons, and, as you, in
your efforts to make it better, only make it worse, give it up in
despair, and console the owner by a reference to spilt milk and the
uselessness of crying. As to the contents of the boxes, they must
look out for themselves. If they get injured, hint that they should
keep out of bad company."

The chairman sat down, and, the question being put, it was more than
unanimously voted (inasmuch as one man voted with both hands
That was McKenzie. ) to adopt the resolutions, the name, and all the
remarks that had been made in connection with them. Members paid
their assessments, and with a hearty good will.

Thus we see how "oaks from acorns grow." Mrs. McKenzie's fretfulness
on account of her husband's patriotism led to the formation of a
society that will make rapid strides towards the front rank of the
army now at work for the amelioration of the condition of mankind.

NEW ENGLAND HOMES.

 I've been through all the nations, have travelled o'er the earth,
O'er mountain-top and valley, far from my land of birth;
But whereso'er I wandered, wherever I did roam,
I saw no spot so pleasant as my own New England home.
I've seen Italia's daughters, beneath Italian skies
Seen beauty in their happy smiles, and love within their eyes;
But give to me the fairer ones that grace New England's shore,
In preference to the dwellers in the valley of Lanore.
I've watched the sun's departure behind the "Eternal Hills,"
When with floods of golden light the vaulted heaven it fills;
But Italy can never boast, with its poetic power,
More varied beauties than those of New England's sunset hour.
I love my own New England; I love its rocks and hills;
I love its trees, its mossy banks, its fountains and its rills;
I love its homes, its cottages, its people round the hearth;
I love, O, how I love to hear New England shouts of mirth!
Tell me of the sunny South, its orange-groves and streams,
That they surpass in splendor man's most enraptured dreams;
But never can they be as fair, though blown by spicy gales,
As those sweet homes, those cottages, within New England vales.
O, when life's cares are ending, and time upon my brow
Shall leave a deeper impress than gathers on it now;
When age shall claim its sacrifice, and I no more shall roam,
Then let me pass my latter days in my New England home!

LOVE THAT WANES NOT.

O, WHEN should Love's true beacons glow the brightest,

If not when darkness shrouds the path we tread?
When should its tokens, though they be the slightest,
Be given, if not when clouds are overhead?
When light is 'round us, and when joys are glowing,
Some hand may press our own, and vow to cherish
A love for us which ne'er shall cease its flowing,--
And yet that love, when darkness comes, may perish.
But there is love which will outlive all sorrow,
And in the darkest hour be nigh to bless,--
Which need not human art or language borrow,
Its deep affection fondly to express.
The mother o'er the child she loveth bending
Need not in words tell others of her love;
For, on the wings of earnest prayer ascending,
It rises, and is registered above.
O, such is love-all other is fictitious;
All other's vanquished by disease and pain;
But this, which lives when fate is unpropitious,
Shall rise to heaven, and there an entrance gain.
ONWARD COURAGEOUSLY.

BEND thee to action-nerve thee to duty!

Whate'er it may be, never despair!
God reigns on high,--pray to him truly,
He will an answer give to thy prayer.
Shrinketh thyself from crosses before thee?
Art thou so made as to tremble and fear?
Confide in thy God; he will watch o'er thee;
Humbly and trustingly, brother, draw near!
Clouds may be gathering, light may depart,
Earth that thou treadest seem crumbling away;
New foes, new dangers, around thee may start,
And spectres of evil tempt thee astray.
Onward courageously! nerved for the task,
Do all thy duty, and strength shall be thine;
Whate'er you want in humility ask,
Aid shall be given from a source that's divine.
Do all thy duty faithful and truly;
Trust in thy Maker,--he's willing to save
Thee from all evil, and keep thee securely,
And make thee triumphant o'er death and the grave.

A FOREST PIC-NIC SONG.

WITHIN these woods, beneath these trees,

We meet to-day a happy band;
All joy is ours,--we feel the breeze
Blow gently o'er our native land.
How brightly blooms each forest flower!
What cheerful notes the wild bird sings!
How nature charms our festive hour,
What beauty round our pathway springs!
The aged bear no weight of years;
The good old man, the matron too,
Forget their ills, forget their fears,
And range the dim old forests through
With youth and maiden on whose cheek
The ruddy bloom of health doth glow,
And in whose eyes the heart doth speak
Oft more than they would have us know.
 How pleasant thus it is to dwell
Within the shadow of this wood,
Where rock and tree and flower do tell
To all that nature's God is good!
Here nature's temple open stands,--
There's none so nobly grand as here,--
The sky its roof; its floor, all lands,
While rocks and trees are worshippers.
There's not a leaf that rustles now,
A bird that chants its simple lays,
A breeze that passing fans our brow,
That speaks not of its Maker's praise.
O, then, let us who gather here
Praise Him who gave us this glad day,
And when the twilight shades appear
Pass with his blessing hence away!

THE WARRIOR'S BRIDE.

CHAPTER I.

ROME was enjoying the blessings of peace; and so little employment

attended the soldier's every-day life, that the words "as idle as a
soldier" became a proverb indicative of the most listless
inactivity.

The people gave themselves up to joy and gladness. The sound of

music was heard from all parts of the city, and perfumed breezes
went up as an incense from the halls of beauty and mirth.

It was, indeed, a blessed time for the city of the seven hills; and
its people rejoiced as they had not for many a long, long year-ay,
for a century.

"Peace, sweet peace, a thousand blessings attend thy glad reign. See
you how quietly the peasant's flocks graze on our eternal hills? The
tinkling bell is a sweeter sound than the trumpet's blast; and the
curling smoke, arising from the hearth-stones of contented
villagers, is a truer index of a nation's power than the sulphurous
cloud from the field of battle. What say you, Alett,--is it not?"

Thus spake a youth of noble mien, as he stood with one arm

encircling the waist of a lady, of whose beauty it were useless to
attempt a description. There are some phases of beauty which pen
cannot describe, nor pencil portray,--a beauty which seems to hover
around the form, words, and motions of those whose special
recipients it is; a sort of ethereal loveliness, concentrating the
tints of the rainbow, the sun's golden rays, and so acting upon the
mind's eye of the observer as almost to convince him that a visitant
from a sphere of perfection is in his presence.
Such was that of Alett. She was the only daughter of a distinguished
general, whose name was the terror of all the foes, and the
confidence of all the friends, of Italy-his eldest daughter; and
with love approaching idolatry he cherished her. She was his
confidant. In the privacy of her faithful heart he treasured all his
plans and purposes. Of late, the peaceful security in which the
nation dwelt gave him the opportunity of remaining at home, where,
in the companionship of a wife he fondly loved, children he almost
idolized, and friends whose friendship was not fictitious, he found
that joy and comfort which the camp could never impart.

Alett was ever in the presence of her father, or the young man whose
apostrophe to peace we have just given.

Rubineau was not the descendant of a noble family, in the worldly

acceptation of the term. It was noble, indeed, but not in deeds of
war or martial prowess. Its nobleness consisted in the steady
perseverance in well-doing, and a strict attachment to what
conscience dictated as right opinions. The general loved him for the
inheritance he possessed in such traits of character, and the love
which existed between his daughter and the son of a plebeian was
countenanced under such considerations, with one proviso; which was,
that, being presented with a commission, he should accept it, and
hold himself in readiness to leave home and friends when duty should
call him to the field of battle.

We have introduced the two standing on a beautiful eminence, in the

rear of the general's sumptuous mansion.

The sun was about going down, and its long, golden rays streamed
over hill and dale, palace and cot, clothing all in a voluptuous
flow of rich light.

They had stood for several moments in silence, gazing at the quiet
and beautiful scene before them, when the musical voice of Rubineau
broke forth in exclamations of delight at the blessings of peace.

Alett was not long in answering. It was a theme on which she

delighted to dwell. Turning the gaze of her large, full eyes up
towards those of Rubineau, she said,

"Even so it is. Holy Peace! It. is strange that men will love the
trumpet's blast, and the smoke and the heat of the conflict, better
than its gentle scenes. Peace, peace! blessings on thee, as thou
givest blessings!"

Rubineau listened to the words of his Alett with a soul of

admiration. He gazed upon her with feelings he had never before
felt, and which it was bliss for him to experience.

She, the daughter of an officer, brought up amid all the glare and
glitter, show and blazonry, of military life,--she, who had seen but
one side of the great panorama of martial life,--to speak thus in
praise of peace, and disparagingly of the profession of her
friends-it somewhat surprised the first speaker.

"It is true," he replied; "but how uncertain is the continuance of

the blessings we now enjoy! To-morrow may sound the alarm which
shall call me from your side to the strife and tumult of war.
Instead of your gentle words, I may hear the shouts of the
infuriated soldiery, the cry of the wounded, and the sighs of the
dying."

"Speak not so," exclaimed Alett; "it must not be."

"Do you not love your country?" inquired the youth.

"I do, but I love Rubineau more. There are warriors enough ready for
the battle. It need not be that you go. But why this alarm? We were
talking of peace, and, behold, now we have the battle-field before
us-war and all its panoply!"

"Pardon me, my dearest Alett, for borrowing trouble; but at times,

when I am with you, and thinking of our present joy, the thought
will arise that it may be taken from us." No more words were needed
to bring to the mind of Alett all that filled that of Rubineau. They
embraced each the other more affectionately than ever, and silently
repaired to the house of the general.

CHAPTER II.

"To remain will be dishonor; to go may be death! When a Roman falls,

the foe has one more arrow aimed at his heart; an arrow barbed with
revenge, and sent with unerring precision. Hark! that shout is music
to every soldier's ear. Hear you that tramp of horsemen? that
rumbling of chariot-wheels?"

Twelve months had passed since the time of the last chapter, and,
after repeated threatening, war had actually begun. Instead of idle
hours, the soldiers had busy moments, and every preparation was made
to meet the opposing array in a determined manner, and with a
steadiness of purpose that should insure success.

The general watched for some time the fluctuating appearance of

public affairs, and it was not until war was not only certain, but
actually in progress, that he called upon Rubineau to go forth.

A week hence Rubineau and Alett were to be united in marriage; and

invitations had been extended far and near, in anticipation of the
event. It had been postponed from week to week, with the hope that
the various rumors that were circulated respecting impending danger
to the country might prove untrue, or at least to have a foundation
on some weak pretence, which reasonable argument might overthrow.

Day by day these rumors increased, and the gathering together of the
soldiery betokened the certainty of an event which would fall as a
burning meteor in the midst of the betrothed and their friends.

The call for Rubineau to depart was urgent, and its answer admitted
of no delay.
"To remain," said the general, "will be dishonor; to go may be
death: which will you choose?"

It was a hard question for the young man to answer. But it must be
met. The general loved him, and with equal unwillingness the
question was presented and received.

"I go. If Rubineau falls--"

"If he returns," exclaimed the general, interrupting him, "honor,

and wealth, and a bride who loves and is loved, shall be his-all
his."

It was a night of unusual loveliness. The warm and sultry atmosphere

of the day had given place to cool and gentle breezes. The stars
were all out, shining as beacons at the gates of a paradise above;
and the moon began and ended her course without the attendance of
one cloud to veil her beauties from the observation of the dwellers
on earth.

Rubineau and Alett were seated beneath a bower, cultivated by the

fair hand of the latter.

The next morning Rubineau was to depart. All the happy scenes of the
coming week were to be delayed, and the thought that they might be
delayed long-ay, forever-came like a shadow of evil to brood in
melancholy above the place and the hour.

We need not describe the meeting, the parting.

"Whatever befalls me, I shall not forget you, Alett. Let us hope for
the best. Yet a strange presentiment I have that I shall not
return."

"O that I could go with you!" said Alett. "Think you father would
object?"

"That were impossible. Nothing but love, true and enduring, could
make such a proposal. It would be incurring a two-fold danger."

"Death would be glorious with you,--life insupportable without you!"

In such conversation the night passed, and when the early light of
morning came slowly up the eastern sky, the sound of a trumpet
called him away.

The waving of a white flag was the last signal, and the general, all
unused to tears as he was, mingled his with those of his family as
the parting kiss was given, and Rubineau started on a warfare the
result of which was known only to Him who governs the destinies of
nations and of individuals.

And now, in the heat of the conflict, the war raged furiously.
Rubineau threw himself in the front rank, and none was more brave
than he. It seemed to his fellow-officers that he was urged on by
some unseen agency, and guarded from injury by some spirit of good.

To himself but one thought was in his mind; and, regardless of

danger, he pressed forward for a glorious victory, and honor to
himself and friends.

Those whose leader he was were inspirited by his courageous action,

and followed like true men where he led the way.

They had achieved several victories, and were making an onset upon
numbers four-fold as large as their own, when their leader received
a severe wound, and, falling from his noble horse, would have been
trampled to death by his followers, had not those who had seen him
fall formed a circle around as a protection for him.

This serious disaster did not dampen the ardor of the soldiers;
they pressed on, carried the point, and saw the foe make a rapid
retreat.

The shouts of victory that reached the ears of Rubineau came with a
blessing. He raised himself, and shouted, "On, brave men!" But the
effort was too much for him to sustain for any length of time, and
he fell back completely exhausted.

He was removed to a tent, and had every attention bestowed upon him.
As night approached, and the cool air of evening fanned his brow, he
began to revive, but not in any great degree.

The surgeon looked sad. There was evidently reason to fear the
worst; and, accustomed as he was to such scenes, he was now but
poorly prepared to meet it.

"Rubineau is expiring," whispered a lad, as he proceeded quietly

among the ranks of soldiers surrounding the tent of the wounded.

And it was so. His friends had gathered around his couch, and,
conscious of the approach of his dissolution, he bade them all
farewell, and kissed them.

"Tell her I love, I die an honorable death; tell her that her
Rubineau fell where the arms of the warriors clashed the closest,
and that victory hovered above him as his arm grew powerless; and,
O, tell her that it was all for her sake,--love for her nerved his
arm, and love for her is borne upward on his last, his dying prayer.
Tell her to love as I--"

"He is gone, sir," said the surgeon.

"Gone!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

"A brave man has fallen," remarked another, as he raised his arm,
and wiped the flowing tears from his cheek.

CHAPTER III.
At the mansion of the old general every arrival of news from the war
sent a thrill of joy through the hearts of its inmates. Hitherto,
every despatch told of victory and honor; but now a sad chapter was
to be added to the history of the conflict.

Alett trembled as she beheld the slow approach of the messenger,

who, at all previous times, had come with a quick step. In her soul
she felt the keen edge of the arrow that was just entering it, and
longed to know all, dreadful though it might be.

Need we describe the scene of fearful disclosure? If the reader has

followed the mind of Alett, as from the first it has presumed,
conjectured, and fancied,--followed all its hopes of future bliss,
and seen it revel in the sunshine of honor and earthly fame,--he can
form some idea, very faint though it must be, of the effect which
followed the recital of all the facts in regard to the fallen.

In her wild frenzy of grief, she gave utterance to the deep feelings
of her soul with words that told how deep was her sorrow, and how
unavailing every endeavor which friends exerted to allay its pangs.

She would not believe him dead. She would imagine him at her side,
and would talk to him of peace, "sweet peace," and laugh in clear
and joyous tones as she pictured its blessings, and herself enjoying
with him its comforts.

Thus, with enthroned reason, she would give vent to grief; and, with
her reason dethroned, be glad and rejoice.

And so passed her lifetime.

Often, all day long, attired in bridal raiment, the same in which
she had hoped to be united indissolubly to Rubineau, she remained
seated in a large oaken chair, while at her side stood the helmet
and spear he had carried forth on the morning when they parted. At
such times, she was as calm as an infant's slumberings, saying that
she was waiting for the sound of the marriage-bells; asked why they
did not ring, and sat for hours in all the beauty of loveliness-the
Warrior's Bride.

THE ADVENT OF HOPE.

ONCE on a time, from scenes of light

An angel winged his airy flight;
Down to this earth in haste he came,
And wrote, in lines of living flame,
These words on everything he met,--
"Cheer up, be not discouraged yet!"
Then back to heaven with speed he flew,
Attuned his golden harp anew;
 Whilst the angelic throng came round
To catch the soul-inspiring sound;
And heaven was filled with new delight,
For HOPE had been to earth that night.

CHILD AND SIRE.

"KNOW you what intemperance is?"

I asked a little child,
Who seemed too young to sorrow know,
So beautiful and mild.
It raised its tiny, blue-veined hand,
And to a church-yard near
It pointed, whilst from glistening eye
Came forth the silent tear.

"Yes, for yonder, in that grave,

Is my father lying;
And these words he spake to me
While he yet was dying:
"'Mary, when the sod lies o'er me
And an orphan child thou art,--
When companions ask thy story,
Say intemperance aimed the dart.
When the gay the wine-cup circle,
Praise the nectar that doth shine,
When they'd taste, then tell thy story,
And to earth they'll dash the wine.'
"And there my dear-loved mother lies,--
What bitter tears I've shed
Over her grave!-I cannot think
That she is really dead.
And when the spring in beauty blooms,
At morning's earliest hour
I hasten there, and o'er her grave
I plant the little flower.
"And patiently I watch to see
It rise from out the earth,
To see it from its little grave
Spring to a fairer birth.
For mother said that thus would she,
And father, too, and I,
Arise from out our graves to meet
In mansions in the sky.
"O, what intemperance is, there's none
On earth can better tell.
Intemperance me an orphan made,
In this wide world to dwell;
Intemperance broke my mother's heart,
It took my father's life,
And makes the days of man below
With countless sorrows rife."
"Know you what intemperance is?"
I asked a trembling sire,
Whose lamp of life burned dim, and seemed
As though 'twould soon expire.
He raised his bow�d head, and then
Methought a tear did start,
As though the question I had put
Had reached his very heart.
He raised his head, but 't was to bow
It down again and sigh;
Methought that old man's hour had come
In which he was to die.
Not so; he raised it up again,
And boldly said, "I can!
Intemperance is the foulest curse
That ever fell on man.
"I had a son, as fair, as bright
As ever mortal blest;
And day passed day, and year passed year,
Whilst I that son carest.
For all my hopes were bound in him;
I thought, from day to day,
That when old age should visit me
That son would be my stay.
"I knew temptations gathered near,
And bade him warning take,--
Consent not, if enticed to sin,
E'en for his father's sake.
But in a fearful hour he drank
From out the poisonous bowl,
And then a pang of sorrow lodged
Within my inmost soul.
"A year had passed, and he whom I
Had strove in vain to save
Fell, crushed beneath intemperance,
Into a drunkard's grave.
O, brother, I can tell to thee
What vile intemperance is,
When one in whom I fondly hoped
Met such an end as his!
"This was not all; a daughter I
Was blest with, and she passed
Before me like an angel-form
Upon my pathway cast.
She loved one with a tender love,
She left her father's side,
And stood forth, in her robes of white,
A young mechanic's bride.
"She lived and loved, and loved and lived,
For many a happy year;
No sorrow clouded o'er her path,
But joy was ever near.
Ay, those were pleasant hours we spent,
Were joyful ones we passed;
Alas! too free from care were they
On earth to always last.
"Then he was tempted, tasted, drank,
 And then to earth he fell;
And ever after misery
Within that home did dwell.
And soon he died, as drunkards die,
With scarce an earthly friend,
Yet one bent o'er him tenderly
Till life itself did end,
"And when life's chord was broken, when
His spirit went forth free,
In all her anguish then she came
To bless and comfort me.
Yet she, too, died, ere scarce twelve months
Had passed o'er her head,
And in yon much-loved church-yard now
She resteth with the dead.
That little child you spoke to is
The child she left behind;
I love her for her mother's sake,
And she is good and kind.
And every morning, early, to
Yon flowery grave she'll go;
And I thank my God she's with me
To bless me here below.
"I had a brother, but he died
The drunkard's fearful death;
He bade me raise a warning voice
Till Time should stay my breath.
And thousands whom in youth I loved
Have fallen 'neath the blast
Of ruin which intemperance
Hath o'er the wide world cast."
He spoke no more,--the gushing tears
His furrowed cheeks did leap;
The little child came quick to know
What made the old man weep.
He, trembling, grasped my hand and said
(The little child grasped his),
"May you ne'er know, as I have known,
What sad intemperance is!"
And since that hour, whene'er I look
Around me o'er the earth,
And see the wine-cup passing free
'Mid scenes of festive mirth,
I think how oft it kindleth up
Within its raging fire,
And fain would tell to all the truths
I heard from "Child and Sire."

A BROTHER'S WELCOME.
 WELCOME, brother, welcome home!
Here's a father's hand to press thee;
Here's a mother's heart to bless thee;
Here's a brother's will to twine
Joys fraternal close with thine;
Here's a sister's earnest love,
Equalled but by that above;
Here are friends who once did meet thee,
Gathered once again to greet thee.
Welcome, brother, welcome home!
Thou hast wandered far away;
Many a night and many a day
We have thought where thou might'st be,
On the land or on the sea;
Whether health was on thy cheek,
Or that word we dare not speak
Hung its shadowy wing above thee,
Far away from those who love thee.
Welcome, brother, welcome home!
Here, where youthful days were spent
Ere life had its labor lent,
Where the hours went dancing by,
'Neath a clear, unclouded sky.
And our thanks for blessings rendered
Unto God were daily tendered,
Here as ever pleasures reign,
Welcome to these scenes again!

THE IMMENSITY OF CREATION.

IT is well for man to consider the heavens, the work of God's hands;
the moon and the stars, which he has created. To look forth upon the
universe, of which we form a part, fills us with high and ennobling
thoughts, and inspires us with an earnest desire to press onward in
the endless path, at every step of which new wonders and new joys
spring up to greet our vision, and to gladden our souls.

Whichever way we look, above or below us, to the right or the left,
we find a boundless expanse teeming with life and its enjoyments.
This earth, large as it may appear to us, is less than a grain of
sand in size, when compared with the vastness around it.

Take your soul away from earth, and send it on a mission of research
among other worlds. Let it soar far away to where the dog-star,
Sirius, holds its course; and then, though nineteen billion two
hundred million miles from earth, a distance so great, that light,
travelling, as it does, at the rate of six million six hundred and
twenty thousand miles a minute, would require three years to pass
it,--even then, when the journeying spirit had reached such a point,
it might pass on and on,--new worlds meeting its gaze at every
advance, and new wonders being seen as far beyond the point it had
attained as the inconceivable length of the path it had already
travelled multiplied a myriad of times.

We can scarcely comprehend the vast distance of Sirius; yet, great

as this distance is, it is the nearest star to our system, and stars
have been seen whose distance from the earth is estimated to be a
thousand times as great!

Can human mind mark that range? A thousand times nineteen billion
two hundred million! And were we to stand on the last of these
discovered stars, we might look yet far beyond, and see "infinity,
boundless infinity, stretching on, unfathomed, forever."

To have an idea of the vastness of creation, we must possess the

mind of the Creator. What are we? We live and move and have our
being on a grain of creation, that is being whirled through
boundless space with inconceivable rapidity. And we affect to be
proud of our estate! We build houses and we destroy them; we wage
war, kill, brutify, enslave, ruin each other; or, we restore,
beautify, and bless. We are vain, sometimes. We think the world was
made for us; the stars shine for us, and all the hosts that gem the
drapery of night created for our special benefit. Astonishing
presumption!-born of ignorance and cradled in credulity!

The mind grows dizzy as it attempts to conceive of constellation

beyond constellation, on and on, through endless space.

Commencing with this earth, the mind given up to serious reflection

muses upon its broad extent of territory, its continents and its
oceans, and it appears very large indeed. Forgetting, for a moment,
its knowledge of other planets, it believes that this world is the
whole universe of God; that the sun, moon and stars, are but lights
in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth. But truth
steps in and change the mind's view. It shows that, large and
important as this earth may appear, the sun, which is spoken of as
inferior, is three hundred and fifty-four thousand nine hundred and
thirty six times larger; and the stars, that seem like diamond
points above us, are, many of them, larger than the sun, one being
one billion eight hundred million miles in diameter. Yet, such a
bulk, when compared to the universe, is less than a monad.

A "monad" is an indivisible atom. It is as incomprehensible as the

mysteries of creation, or the duration of eternity.

Tripoli, or rotten-stone, an article used in every family, and tons

of which are daily employed in manufactories, is composed entirely
of animalcul�. In each cubic inch there are forty-one billion, that
is, forty-one million-million of these living, breathing creatures,
each of whom has organs of sight, hearing and digestion. Think, if
you can, of the internal organization of beings a million of whom
could rest on the point of a cambric needle!

But there are more minute forms of creation than even those. Deposit
a grain, the four hundred and eightieth part of an ounce of musk, in
any place, and, for twenty years, it will throw off exhalations of
fragrance, without causing any perceptible decrease of weight. The
fragrance that for so many years goes forth from that minute portion
of matter is composed of particles of musk. How small must each of
those particles be, that follow each other in ceaseless succession
for twenty years, without lessening, to any perceptible degree, the
weight of the deposit! And yet we have not reached the monad. A
celebrated author

Niewentyt. made a computation which led to the conclusion that six

billion as many atoms of light flow from a candle in one second as
there are grains of sand in the whole earth, supposing each cubic
inch to contain one million!

Here we must stop. Further advances are impossible, yet our end is
not attained; we have not yet reached the monad, for the animalcul�
and the less sentient particles of matter, light, are not, for they
are divisible.

The insect can be divided, because it has limbs with which to move;
and an intelligence higher than man can doubtless see emanations
from those particles of light. But a monad is indivisible! Think of
each cubic inch of this great earth containing a million grains of
sand, and those countless grains multiplied by one billion, or a
million-million, and that the product only shows the number of
particles of light that flow from a candle in one second of
time!-and not a monad yet! Minds higher than ours can separate each
of these particles, and yet perhaps they find not the indivisible,
but assign over to other minds the endless task.

With such thoughts let us return to our first point, and remark that
the star tens of billions of miles distant, one billion eight
hundred million miles in diameter, is but a monad when compared with
the creations of the vast universe of God!

Here the mind sinks within itself, and gladly relinquishes the
herculean task of endeavoring to comprehend, for a single moment, a
fractional part of the stupendous whole.

Deep below us, high above us, far as the eye of the mind can see
around us, are the works of our Creator, marshalled in countless
hosts. All animated by his presence, all breathed upon by his life,
inspired by his divinity, fostered by his love, supported by his
power.

And in all things there is beauty-sunbeams and rainbows; fragrant

flowers whose color no art can equal. In every leaf, every branch,
every fibre, every stone, there is a perfect symmetry, perfect
adaptation to the conditions that surround it. And thus it is, from
the minutest insect undiscernible by human eye, to the planet whose
size no figures can represent. Each and all the works of God order
governs, symmetry moulds, and beauty adorns.

There are all grades of beings, from the monad to the highest
intelligences, and man occupies his position in the endless chain.
Could you hear and see, as seraphs listen and behold, you would hear
one continuous song of glad praise go up from all creation; you
would see all things radiant with smiles, reflecting the joys of
heaven. And why? Because they follow nature's leading, and, in doing
so, live and move in harmony.

Who can scale the heights above us, or fathom the depths below us?
Who can comprehend the magnitude of countless worlds that roll in
space-the distance that separates the nearest orb from our earth,
the worlds of being in a drop of water, the mighty array of angel
forms that fill immensity?

Well may we exclaim, "Great and marvellous are thy works, O Lord of
Hosts, and that my soul knoweth right well!"

A VISION OF HEAVEN.

NIGHT had shed its darkness round me;

Wearied with the cares of day,
Rested I. Sleep's soft folds bound me,
And my spirit fled away.
As on eagle pinions soaring,
On I sped from star to star,
Till heaven's high and glistening portals
Met my vision from afar.
Myriad miles I hasted over;
Myriad stars I pass�d by:
On and on my tireless spirit
Urged its ceaseless flight on high.
Planets burned with glorious radiance,
Lighting up my trackless way;
On I sped, till music coming
From the realms of endless day
Fell upon my ear,--as music
Chanted by celestial choirs
Only can,--and then my spirit
Longed to grasp their golden lyres
Stood I hear that portal wondering
Whether I could enter there:
I, of earth and sin the subject,
Child of sorrow and of care!
There I stood like one uncalled for,
Willing thus to hope and wait,
Till a voice said, "Why not enter?
Why thus linger at the gate?
"Know me not? Say whence thou comest
Here to join our angel band.
Know me not? Here, take thy welcome-
Take thine angel-sister's hand."
Then I gazed, and, gazing, wondered;
For 't was she who long since died,--
She who in her youth departed,
Falling early at my side.
"Up," said she, "mid glorious temples!
Up, where all thy loved ones rest!
They with joy will sing thy welcome
To the mansions of the blest.
Mansions where no sin can enter,
 Home where all do rest in peace;
Where the tried and faithful spirit
From its trials finds release;
"Golden courts, where watchful cherubs
Tune their harps to holy praise;
Temples in which countless myriads
Anthems of thanksgiving raise."
I those shining portals entered,
Guided by that white-robed one,
When a glorious light shone round me,
Brighter than the noonday sun!
Friends I met whom death had severed
From companionship below;
All were there-and in each feature
Immortality did glow.
I would touch their golden lyres,
When upon my ear there broke
Louder music--at that moment
I from my glad vision woke.
All was silent; scarce a zephyr
Moved the balmy air of night;
And the moon, in meekness shining,
Shed around its hallowed light.

THERE'S HOPE FOR THEE YET.

WHAT though from life's bounties thou mayest have fallen?

What though thy sun in dark clouds may have set?
There is a bright star that illumes the horizon,
Telling thee truly, "There's hope for thee yet."
This earth may look dull, old friends may forsake thee;
Sorrows that never before thou hast met
May roll o'er thy head; yet that bright star before thee
Shines to remind thee "there's hope for thee yet."
'T is but folly to mourn, though fortune disdain thee,
Though never so darkly thy sun may have set;
'T is wisdom to gaze at the bright star before thee,
And shout, as you gaze, "There's hope for me yet."

SOLILOQUY OVER THE GRAVE OF A WIFE.

 IT cannot be that thou art dead; that now
I watch beside thy grave, and with my tears
Nourish the flowers that blossom over thee;
I cannot think that thou art dead and gone;
That naught remains to me of what thou wert,
Save that which lieth here,--dust unto dust.
When the bright sun arises, and its rays
Pass noiseless through my chamber, then methinks
That thou art with me still; that I can see
Thy flowing hair; and thy bright glancing eye
Beams on me with a look none other can.
And when at noon life's busy tumult makes
My senses reel, and I almost despair,
Thou comest to me and I'm cheered again;
Thine own bright smile illuminates my way,
And one by one the gathered clouds depart,
Till not a shadow lies upon my path.
Night, with its long and sombre shadows, treads
Upon the steps that morn and noon have trod;
And, as our children gather round my knee,
And lisp those evening prayers thy lips have taught,
I cannot but believe that thou art near.
But when they speak of "mother," when they say
"'T is a long time since she hath left our side,"
And when they ask, in their soft infant tones,
When they again shall meet thee,--then I feel
A sudden sadness o'er my spirit come:
And when sleep holds them in its silken bands
I wander here, to this fair spot they call
Thy grave (as though this feeble earth could hold
Thee in its cold embrace), and weep and sigh;
Yet, trusting, look above to yon bright sphere,
And feel thou art not dead, but living there.
It is not thou that fills this spot of earth,
It is not thou o'er whom these branches wave,
These blooming roses only mark the spot
Where but remaineth that thou couldst not wear
Amid immortal scenes.
Thou livest yet!
Thy feet do tread the golden courts of heaven;
Thy hands have touched the harps that angels use;
Thy eyes have seen the glory of our Lord;
Thy ears have listened to that song of praise
Which angels utter, and which God accepts.

THE FUGITIVES.

THEY had escaped the galling chain and fetters,

Had gained the freedom which they long had sought,
And lived like men-in righteous deeds abettors,
 Loving the truth which God to them had taught
Some at the plough had labored late and early;
And some ascended Learning's glorious mount;
And some in Art had brought forth treasures pearly,
Which future history might with joy recount
As gems wrought out by hands which God made free,
But man had sworn should chained and fettered be.
They lived in peace, in quietness, and aided
In deeds of charity-in acts of love;
Nor cared though evil men their works upbraided,
While conscience whispered of rewards above.
And they had wives to love, children who waited
At eve to hear the father's homeward tread,
And clasped the hand,--or else, with joy elated,
Sounding his coming, to their mother sped.
Thus days and years passed by, and hope was bright,
Nor dreamed they of a dark and gloomy night.
Men came empowered, with handcuffs and with warrants,
And, entering homes, tore from their warm embrace
Husbands and fathers, and in copious torrents
Poured forth invective on our northern race,
And done all "lawfully;" because 't was voted
By certain men, who, when they had the might,
Fostered plans on which their passions doted,
Despite of reason and God's law of right;
And, bartering liberties, the truth dissembled,
While Freedom's votaries yielded as they trembled.
Shall we look on and bear the insult given?
O, worse than "insult" is it to be chained,
To have the fetters on thy free limbs riven,
When once the prize of Freedom has been gained.
No! by the granite pointing high above us,
By Concord, Lexington, and, Faneuil Hall,
By all these sacred spots, by those who love us,
We pledge to-day our hate of Slavery's thrall;
And give to man, whoever he may be,
The power we have to make and keep him free.

THE UNIVERSAL JUBILEE.

WHAT shouts shall rise when earth shall hold

Its universal jubilee!
When man no more is bought and sold,
And one and all henceforth are free!

Then songs they'll sing,

That loud shall ring
From rock to rock, from shore to shore.
"Hurra!" they'll shout, "we're free, we're free,
From land to land, from sea to sea,
 And chains and fetters bind no more!"
Let every freeman strive to bring
The universal jubilee;
All hail the day when earth shall ring
With shouts of joy, and men are free!

Then each glad voice

Shall loud rejoice,
And chains shall fall from every hand,
Whilst myriad tongues shall loudly tell
The grateful joy of hearts that swell,
Where Freedom reigns o'er sea and land.

TAPVILLE was situated on the borders of one of the most beautiful

rivers that grace and refresh the soil of New England. It was once a
quiet place, once as perfect in its character as any of its
sisterhood. A moral atmosphere pervaded it, and the glorious and
divine principle of doing unto others as they would have others do
unto them governed its inhabitants; and, therefore, it was not
strange that its farmers and storekeepers kept good the proverbial
honesty and hospitality of their progenitors. Tradition said (but
written history was silent) that a few of those who landed at
Plymouth Rock separated from the main body, and took up their abode
further in the interior; and that, from these "few," a flourishing
company arose, and the place they inhabited was "Springvale." But
time and circumstances having much to do with the concerns of
earth's inhabitants, changed the character as well as the name of
this ancient town, and "Springvale" became "Tapville."

One evening, in the year one thousand eight hundred and I don't
remember what, after a somewhat fatiguing ride on horseback all day,
my heart was cheered on coming in view of the town. I had never
visited Tapville, but, from accounts I had heard, judged it to be a
sort of Pandemonium-a juvenile Bedlam. As I entered, troops of
children greeted me with shouts, and my horse with stones. Despite
of my treatment, I could not but compare their appearance, to say
nothing of their conduct, with those I had last seen in another
town, thirty miles distant. These were attired in rags, those in
good clothing; these with unwashed faces, uncombed hair, and bearing
every mark of neglect,--those bright and smiling, happy themselves,
and making all around them so.

I did not much fancy my reception, I assure you. My horse seemed

wondering at the cause of it, for he suddenly halted, then turned
slowly about, and began to canter away with a speed that I thought
quite impossible for a beast after a long day's work. I reined him
in, turned about, and entered the town by a small and not much
frequented pathway.

There was a large building at my left, with a huge sign over its
principal door, from which I learned that "Good Entertainment for
Man and Beast" might be had within. Appearances, however, indicated
that a beast must be a very bad beast who would accept its
"entertainment."

A fat man, wearing a green jacket on his back, an old torn and
tattered straw hat on his head, and both hands in his pockets, stood
lazily at the door; before which half a score of dirty children were
playing with marbles, and a short distance from which a couple of
children were fighting, upon whose pugilistic exercises a woman,
with a child in her arms and a pipe in her mouth, was gazing with
intense interest.

The general appearance of the town was far from pleasing. At nearly
every window, hats, or shingles, or bundles of rags, took the place
of glass, and the doors, instead of being hung on hinges, were "set
up," liable to be set down by the first gust of wind.

Near one miserable shantee, poor, very poor apology for a

dwelling-house, one man was endeavoring to get another into the
house; at least, so I thought; but both were so much intoxicated
that I could not tell, for my life, which the latter was. At one
moment, the man with the blue coat with the tails cut off seemed to
be helping the man without a coat; the next moment, I thought the
coatless man was trying to help the other. The fact was, both needed
help, which neither could give; so they remained "in a fix."

Now and then, a bare-footed little child would run across my path,
and hurry out of sight, as if fearful of being seen where so much
that was neither of heaven nor of earth was discernible.

In striking contrast with the want and desolation around, stood a

beautiful mansion. Around it was a garden of choice flowers, and the
vine, with its rich clusters of luscious grapes, shaded the path to
the entrance of the house.

I continued on. Far up a shaded avenue I perceived a small, yet neat

cottage, so different in general appearance from those around it,
that I turned my way thither, in hopes of resting in quiet, and, if
possible, of learning something relative to the town. I alighted,
knocked, and soon an old lady requested me to enter, saying that
Tommy would see that my horse was cared for. It was a small room
that I entered; everything was as neat and clean as a New Year's
gift, and there was so much of New England about it, that I felt at
home. Near an open window, in an easy-chair, sat a young lady of
decidedly prepossessing appearance but evidently wasting beneath
that scourge of eastern towns and cities-consumption. There was a
hue upon her cheek that was in beautiful contrast with the pure
white of her high forehead, and the dark, penetrating eye that
flashed with the deep thoughts of her soul.

The old lady was one of those good-natured, motherly women, whom you
will find at the firesides of New England homes, generous to a
fault; and whom you cannot but love, for the interest she takes in
you, and the solicitude she manifests for your welfare.

A repast was soon at hand, and when it was over the lady said,

"You are from Boston, then?"

"Yes," I replied; "and, having heard considerable respecting this

place, have come hither to satisfy myself whether or not any good
would be likely to result from a temperance lecture here."

"Temperance lecture!" she exclaimed, as she grasped my hand. "Do,

sir, for Heaven's sake, do something, do anything you possibly can,
to stay the ravages of the rum fiend in this place!"
She would have said more, but she could not. The fountains of her
heart seemed breaking, and a flood of tears flowed from her eyes.
The daughter buried her face in her hands, and the sighs that arose
from both mother and child told me that something had been said that
deeply affected them.

Tommy at this moment came in, happy and joyous; but, as soon as he
saw his mother and sister weeping, his whole appearance changed. He
approached his mother, and, looking up in her face, said, "Don't
cry, mother. Jenny will be better soon, and Tommy will work and make
you and her happy. Don't cry, mother!"

The child's simple entreaty brought more copiously the tears to the
mourner's eyes, and some time elapsed before they became in the
least degree comforted.

"You will excuse me, sir," said she, "I know you will, for my grief;
but, O, if temperance had been here ten years ago, we should have
been so happy!"

"Yes," said the boy; "then father would not have died a drunkard!"

The surmises I had entertained as to the cause of this sorrow were

now confirmed; and, at my request, she told me her story, with a
hope that it might prove a warning to others.

"You must know, sir, that when we came here to live we were just
married. Alfred, my husband, was a good mechanic, industrious,
frugal and kind-hearted. He had by his labor and economy
accumulated a small amount, enough to purchase an estate consisting
of a house, shop and farm. He had many and good customers, and our
prospects were very fair. We attended church regularly, for we
thought that, after enjoying the bounties of a beneficent Ruler all
of six days, it was our duty, as well as privilege, to devote the
seventh to His praise.

"Years passed by, when one morning Jenny, who was then about seven
years old, came running in, and told me that a new store had been
opened; that the man had nothing but two or three little kegs, and a
few bottles and tumblers. I went out, and found it as she had
stated. There was the man; there was his store; there were his kegs,
bottles and tumblers.

"The next day some changes were made; a few signs were seen, and the
quiet villagers gazed in wonder, if not admiration, at the
inscriptions, 'Rum,' 'Gin,' 'Brandies,' 'Wines and Cigars.' Old men
shook their heads, and looked wise. Old women peered from beneath
their specs, and gave vent to many predictions. Children asked what
the words meant.

"That night I talked with my husband about it. He thought that there
was no danger; that social enjoyment would harm no one; and seemed
astonished, to use his own words, 'that such a sensible woman as I
was should express any anxiety about the matter.' That night, to me,
was a long and sad one. I feared the result of the too much
dependence on self which he seemed to cherish.

"The rumseller soon gathered a number of townsmen about him. His

establishment became a place of frequent resort by many, and soon we
had quarrelling neighbors, and disturbances at night. Boys became
dishonest, and thus the fruits of the iniquitous traffic became
visible.

"I noticed that Alfred was not as punctual in his return as

formerly; and my fears that he visited this pest-house of the town
were soon confirmed. I hinted to him my suspicions. He was frank,
and freely admitted that he visited the bar-room; said he had become
acquainted with a few choice spirits, true friends, who had sworn
eternal friendship. 'Danger,' said he, 'there is none! If I thought
I endangered your happiness, I would not visit it again.' I
recollect the moment. He looked me steadily in the face, and, as he
did so, a tear escaped my eye. He, smiling, wiped it away, promised
that when he saw evil he would avoid it, and left me alone to my
reflections.

"But I will be brief. I need not tell you how, step by step, he
descended that ladder whose end rested in the grave. I need not tell
you how I warned him of dander; how I entreated him to avoid it;
how I watched him in sickness, and bathed his fevered brow; how my
heart was gladdened when I saw his health returning, and heard his
solemn promise to reform.

"Nor need I tell you how he was again led astray, and his hand
encircled that cup which he had once dashed aside. O, sir, he was a
good man; and, in his sober moments, he would weep like a child, as
he thought of his situation! He would come to me and pour out his
soul in gratitude for my kindness; and would beg my forgiveness, in
the tenderest manner, till his heart became too full for utterance,
and his repentance found vent in his tears.

"What could I do but forgive him, as I did a hundred times!

"Disheartened, I became sick. I was not expected to survive; and

Jenny, poor, child, watched by my side, and contracted an illness,
from which, I fear, she will not be freed till the God she loves
calls her home to himself.

"When I recovered, Alfred remained for some time sober and happy.
But he fell! Yes, sir; but God knows he tried to stand, and would
have done so had not the owner of that groggery, by foul stratagem,
hurled him to the ground. I went, my daughter went, friends went, to
ask the destroyer of our happiness to desist; but he turned us away
with an oath and a laugh, saying, 'he would sell to all who wanted.'

"Frequent exposure brought disease; disease brought death, and my

husband died.

"All our property was sold to meet the demands of merciless

creditors, the principal one of whom was this very rumseller who
turned me from his doors. A friend furnished us with the cottage in
which we have since lived. Many kind-hearted friends have gathered
around us, and we have been happy, save when the recollections of
the past rise before us. Others, beside myself, have had cause to
mourn and our town, once inhabited by happy, quiet and contented
families, has become noted as a seat of iniquity.

"He who has caused this change is now the wealthiest man in town.
You might have seen his stately palace as you rode up, environed
with fruits and flowers. He lives there; but, within the shade of
that mansion, are the wretched hovels of those upon whose ruin he
sits enthroned. He has roses and fruits at his door, but they have
been watered by widows' tears; and the winds that reach his home
amid rich vines and laden trees may bear to his ears the orphan's
cry, from whose mouth he has taken the daily bread."

When the old lady had finished her narrative, she could restrain her
tears no longer, and they burst forth as freely as at first.

I inquired whether there were any beside herself who would become
interested in a temperance movement. She replied that there were
many, but they wished some one to start it.

I had left a gentleman at the town I last came from, who was an
eloquent advocate; and my first act, after listening to the widow's
narrative, was to write a note, and send it in all possible haste to
him.

The next day he came; and, if you could have seen the joy of that
family as I told them that we had announced a meeting, you would
have some faint idea of the happiness which the temperance reform
has produced.

From what I had learned, I expected that we should meet with some
opposition from the wealthy individual before alluded to, or from
his agents, who were so blinded to their own interests that they
could not be easily induced to move for their own good.

The evening came, and the room we had engaged was well filled. My
friend arose, when a stone, hurled at him from without, missed its
aim, and struck a lamp at his side, dashing it into a hundred
fragments. Little disconcerted at this, he began his address; and,
in a short time, gained the attention of the audience in so perfect
a manner, that they heeded not the attempts of a noisy crowd without
to disturb them.

He continued on. Men leaned forward to catch his words, and some
arose and stood as motionless as statues, with eyes fixed intently
on the speaker. Women wept; some in sorrow for the past, others in
joy for the future. A deep feeling pervaded all. The disturbance
without ceased, and one by one the disturbers came to the door; one
by one they entered, and began to feel the truths which the speakers
uttered.

The only interruption was made by an aged man, who bowed his silvery
head, and, in trembling accents, moaned out, "My son, my son!" These
words, uttered at the expiration of every few minutes, increased the
solemnity of the occasion, and added power to the lecturer's
remarks, for all knew the story of his son, and all knew that he was
carried home dead from the groggery.

When, at the end of the lecture, it was asked who would sign the
pledge, the whole assembly started to respond to the call, and each
one that night became pledged to total abstinence.

The next day a great excitement existed relative to the groggeries

in town; a meeting was called, and a committee appointed to act in a
manner they thought best calculated to promote the interests of the
people at large.

This committee determined to present the facts to the keepers of the

places in question, and request them to renounce the traffic.

The facts were presented. They saw that their customers had all left
them, and why should they continue? It would be a losing business.

The effect of the moral suasion had been powerful; it labored with
the very soul of the traffic, with those who put the pence in the
dealers' coffers. It was more powerful than all laws that could have
been enacted. Forbidding them to sell while customers crowded their
doors would have had no effect, unless to create riot; inducing
their customers to leave them soon induced them to leave the
business, for where there are none to buy there will be none to
sell.

In view of all this, the rumsellers of Tapville gave up; and,

strange to say, joined with the people that night in their
rejoicing, and made a bonfire of their stock in trade.

By the light of that fire my friend and I left the town; and when
far away we could see its glare, and hear the shouts of a
disenthralled people.

After a few months' travel in the south and west, I revisited

Tapville, or rather the place where it once stood; but no Tapville
was there. The town had regained its former sobriety and quiet, and
became "Springvale."

I called at the widow's cottage; Tommy ran out to meet me, and I
received a welcome I shall never forget. But Jenny was no more; with
her last breath she had blessed the temperance cause, and then her
pure spirit winged its way to that home where sorrows never come,
and where the troubles of earth are forgotten amid the joys of
heaven.

THE BATTLE OF THE RED MEN.

'T WAS cold, bleak winter, on a rock-bound coast,

When bands of exiles trod its frozen shore.
Who then stood forth to greet the coming host
And shelter freely give when storms did pour?

Old Samoset-peace to his memory still!-

He bade them welcome, welcome, with good will.

Then was the red man's nation broad and strong-
O'er field and forest he held firm control;
Then power was his to stay the coming throng,
 And back the wave of usurpation roll.

He might have crushed them on old Plymouth's rock,

And freedom to this day have felt the shock.

Not so he willed it; he would have them sit
In peace and amity around his door;
The pipe of peace in friendship would have lit,
And, as its white cloud up towards heaven did soar,

Learned that like it the spirits pure and white

Ascend, to live in never-ceasing light.

But what return did they profusely give
Who were dependent on the red man's corn?
Not even to them the privilege to live,
But war and fire, torture, hate and scorn!

Hunted like wild beasts through the forests' track;

For food and welcome such they gave him back.

Then roused to madness was the Indian's soul,
Then grasped with firmness every one his bow;
No mortal power his purpose could control,
Till he had seen the traitors lying low.

Revenge! revenge! was sounded far and wide,

O'er every field and every river's tide.

The little child that scarce could lisp a word
Was taught to hate the white man; maidens fair
Were roused to fearful vengeance, as they heard
Their brothers' wrongs, and madly tore their hair;

Old men urged on the young, and young men fled

Swift to increase the armies of the dead.

And thus the war began,--the fearful war
That swept o'er happy homesteads like a flood;
The white and red man knew no other law
Than that which wrote its every act in blood.

Daylight beheld the ball and arrow's flight,

And blazing homes made terrible the night.

The rifle's sharp report, the arrow's whiz,
The shout, the yell, the fearful shriek of death;
Despair in him who saw the last of his,
And heard "good-by" from children's dying breath;

The last sad look of prisoners borne away,

And groan of torture, marked the night and day.

With arms more skilful-not with hearts more true,
Or souls more brave to battle for the right-
The white the unjust warfare did pursue,
Till, inch by inch, the red man took his flight

From homes he loved, from altars he revered,

 And left, forever, scenes to him endeared.
O, what an hour for those brave people that!
Old men, whose homes were loved as homes can be;
Young men and maidens who had often sat
In love and peace beneath the forest tree;

Parents who'd planted flowers; and with warm tears

Watered the graves of dearest-gone for years!

From every tree a voice did seem to start,
And every shrub that could a shadow cast
Seemed to lament the fate that bade them part,
So closely twined was each one with the past.

O, was it strange they fought with furious zeal?

Say, men who think, and have warm hearts to feel.

And thus they went,--a concourse of wronged men,--
Not with a speedy flight; each inch they gave,
Each blade of grass that passed beyond their ken,
Was sold for blood, and for a patriot's grave;

And white men paid the price-and now they hold

This broad, broad land for cost more dear than gold.
And yet 't is not enough; the cry for more
Hath vexed the Indian, till the Atlantic's wave
Now blends with it the thunder of its roar,
And soon shall sound the requiem o'er the grave

Of the last Indian,--last of that brave band

Who once held sway o'er all this fertile land.

Methinks to-day I see him stand alone,
Drawing his blanket close around his form;
He hath braved all, hath heard the dying moan
Rise from the fields of strife; and now the storm

That hath swept all before it, age on age,

On him, the last, seeks to pour forth its rage.

Raising his hand appealing to the sun,
He swears, by all he hath or now could crave,
That when his life is closed, his life-race run,
A white man ne'er shall stand above his grave.

Shall he, the last of a once noble race,

Consign himself to such a dire disgrace?

Never! let rock to rock the word resound;
Never! bear witness all ye gods to-day;
Never! ye streams and rivers, as ye bound,
Write "Never" on your waves, and bear away;

Tell to the world that, hunted, wronged, abused,

With such reproach he ne'er shall be accused,

The red man's brethren, tell him where are they;
 The red man's homes and altars, what their fate?
Shall he who stands the last, the last to-day,
Forget with his last breath to whisper hate?

Hate, deep and fathomless, and boundless too,

Such as to fiendish cruelty is due.

He cannot bear the white man's presence now,
Or bear to hear his name or see his works;
He thinks that wrong is stamped upon his brow,
That in his good deeds selfish purpose lurks.

Has he a cause for this?-review the past,

And see those acts which prompt hate to the last.

Sons of the Pilgrims, who to-day do boast
Of Freedom's favors, ye whose wealth doth lie
From the Atlantic to the Pacific coast!
Let not the race you have supplanted die;

Perish like forest-leaves from off their lands,

Without a just requital at your hands.

O, give them homes which they can call their own,
Let Knowledge light its torch and lead the way;
And meek Religion, from the eternal throne,
Be there to usher in a better day;

Then shall the past be blotted from life's scroll,

And all the good ye may do crown the whole.

SUNLIGHT ON THE SOUL.

O, THAT some spirit form would come,

From the fair realms of heaven above,
And take my outstretched hand in hers,
To bathe me in angelic love!
O that these longing, peering eyes,
Might pierce the shadowy curtain's fold,
And see in radiant robes arrayed,
The friends whose memory I do hold
Close, close within my soul's deep cell!
O, that were well! O, that were well!
I've often thought, at midnight's hour,
That round my couch I could discern
A shadowy being, from whose eye
I could not, ah! I would not turn.
It seemed so sisterly to me,
So radiant with looks of love,
 That ever since I've strove to be
More like the angel hosts above.
The hopes, the joys were like a spell,
And it was well! Yes, it was well!
And every hour of day and night
I feel an influence o'er me steal,
So soothing, pure, so holy, bright,
I would each human heart could feel
A fraction of the mighty tide
Of living joy it sends along.
Then why should I complain, and ask
Why none of heaven's angelic throng
Come to this earth with me to dwell,
For all is well,--all, all is well!

A SONG FROM THE ABSENT.

TO THE LOVED ONE AT HOME.

AWAY from home, how slow the hours

Pass wearily along!
I feel alone, though many forms
Around my pathway throng.
There's none that look on me in love,
Wherever I do roam;
I'm longing for thy gentle smile,
My dearest one, at home.
I walk around; strange things I see,
Much that is fair to view;
Man's art and Nature's handiwork,
And all to me is new.
But, ah! I feel my joy were more,
If, while 'mid these I roam,
It could be shared with thee I love,
My dearest one, at home.
Blow, blow ye winds, and bear me on
My long and arduous way!
Move on, slow hours, more swiftly move,
And bring to life the day
When, journey done, and absence o'er,
No more I distant roam;
When I again shall be with thee,
My dearest one, at home.

TWILIGHT FOREST HYMN.

THE HOUR OF PARTING.

FRIENDS who here have met to-day,

Let us sing our parting lay,
Ere we hence do pass away,
Ere the sun doth set.
As we've trod this grassy earth,
Friendships new have had their birth,
And this day of festive mirth
We shall ne'er forget.
Rock, and hill, and shading tree,
Streamlet dancing to the sea,
Gladly though we'd stay with thee,
We must leave you all;
On the tree and on the flower
Comes the evening's twilight hour,
And upon each forest bower
Evening's shadows fall.
Part we now, but through our life,
Hush of peace or jar of strife,
Memory will still be rife
With glad thoughts of thee;
Wheresoe'er our feet may stray,
Memory will retain this day;
Fare thee well-we haste away,
Farewell rock and tree!

THE SUMMER SHOWER.

UP from the lake a mist ascends,

And forms a sea of cloud above,
That hangs o'er earth as if in love
With its green vales; then quick it send
Its blessings down in cooling rain,
On hill and valley, rock and plain.
Nature, delighted with the shower,
Sends up the fragrance of each flower;
Birds carol forth their cheeriest lays,
The green leaves rustle forth their praise.
Soon, one by one, the clouds depart,
And a bright rainbow spans the sky,
That seems but the reflective part
Of all below, fixed there on high.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON.

EARLY one bright summer morning, as I was perambulating beneath

those noble trees that stand the body-guard of one of the most
beautiful places of which city life can boast,--Boston Common,--I
encountered a man who attracted my special attention by his apparent
carelessness of action, and humble bearing. He looked dejected
likewise, and I seated myself on the stone seat beside him.

He took me by the sleeve of my coat, and whispered in my ear, "I'm

an Automaton, sir." A few more words passed between us, after which,
at my request, he gave me a sketch of his life, which I propose to
give you in language as nearly his own as possible.

"I was born. I came into this world without any consent of my own,
sir, and as soon as I breathed the atmosphere of this mundane state
I was bandaged and pinned, and felt very much as a mummy might be
supposed to feel. I was then tossed from Matilda to Jerusha, and
from Jerusha to Jane, and from Jane to others and others. I tried to
laugh, but found I could n't; so I tried to cry, and succeeded most
admirably in my effort.

"'He's sick,' said my aunt; and my aunt called a doctor, who, wise
man, called for a slip of paper and an errand-boy.

"The next I knew, my head was being held by my aunt, and the doctor
was pouring down my throat, which he distended with the handle of a
spoon, a bitter potion; pouring it down without any consent of my
own, sir.

"Whether I got better or worse I don't know; but I slept for a time,
and had a strange dream, of a strange existence, upon which I seemed
to have suddenly entered.

"The subsequent year was one in which I figured not largely, but
considerably. I made a noise in the world, and was flattered so much
by my mother's acquaintances that my nose has been what is vulgarly
called 'a pug,' ever since. I did n't have my own way at all, except
when I screamed. In that I was not an Automaton. I was myself in
that particular; and the more restraint they put upon me, the more
freedom I had. I cried independently of all my aunts and cousins.
They could n't dictate me in that.

"Years passed on, and I grew older, as a matter of course. I grew

without any consent of my own, sir, and found myself in jacket and
trousers ditto. I was sent to school, and was told to study Greek
and Latin, and Algebra, and Pneumatics, and Hydrostatics, and a
dozen or twenty other things, the very names of which I have
forgotten, but which I well remember bothered me considerably in
those days. I had much rather have studied the laws of my own being;
much rather have examined and become acquainted with the
architecture of my own bodily frame; much rather have studied
something more intimately connected with the realities of my own
existence; but they made me study what was repulsive to my own mind,
and speak big words which I did n't understand, and which my teacher
could n't explain without the aid of a dictionary.

"My parents labored under the strange delusion that I was a

wonderful child. I don't know why, unless it was because I did n't
know anything of life, and I could repeat a little Latin, stumble
through a sentence of Greek, and, after having solved a problem
seventy-six thousand times to show my wonderful precociousness,
could do it again when called upon. Perhaps I'm extravagant. It was
n't more than half that number of times. At any rate, sir, I was
thought a prodigy--a most astonishing intellectual--I don't know
what,--call it mushroom,--because what I had done so many times I
could do again.

"I recollect there was a little youngster of my acquaintance,--a

charming, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy,--who told me, one day, that
he did n't care for the dead languages, he had rather know the live
ones. I thought so too, and we talked a long time, down behind old
Turner's barn, about what should be and what should n't. But I had
to go home. I had to be pulled about, this arm with this wire, and
that foot with that wire. I had to do this and that, to study this
and study that, because-why, because I was an Automaton, sir. I was
born such. 'T was in my bones to be an Automaton.

"My school-days passed, and the minister told my father that if he

was him he'd send me to college. He-my father-did n't sleep any,
that night. He and my mother kept awake till daylight
prognosticating my career, and fixing upon a day when I should go to
Cambridge.

"That day came. I remember it was a cloudy day. There was a dull
shadow over everything. Yes, even over my heart. I didn't want to go
to college. I knew I hadn't been allowed to learn anything I wanted
to learn out of it; and I knew I should n't do any better shut up
within its old dingy, musty, brick walls. I knew I should n't learn
anything there. I had rather be out in the world. I had rather be
studying in Nature's great college. I had rather graduate with a
diploma from God, written on my heart, than to waste years of life
away from the great school of human life; to be told by another how
I should go, what I should believe, and how I should act, in the
great drama of life. But I had to go, sir,--go to college; for I was
an Automaton.

"As I before said, the day was cloudy. Mother dressed me up. For a
week preparations had been making for my exit, and finally I went. I
was put in a stage where three men were smoking. I objected, and
intimated that it would be much better if those who smoked rode on
the outside; but my father said, 'hush,' and told me that smoking
was common at college, and I must get used to it. When the stage
stopped to change horses, the men got out, and swore, and drank
brandy; and I asked whether such things were common at college, and
whether I had got to get used to them too. But I could n't get any
answer.

"The wind blew cold, but my coat was made so small that I could n't
button it together. I would have had it loose and easy, and warm and
comfortable; but 't was n't fashionable to have it so. Father
followed fashion, and I suffered from the cold. I had a nice, soft
cap, that I used to wear to church at home; but father thought that,
as I was going to the city, I must have a hat; so he had bought me
one, and the hard, stiff, ungainly thing was stuck on my head. I had
as lieves have had a piece of stove-pipe there. It made my head ache
awfully.

"If I had n't been what I was, I should have worn a nice, easy pair
of shoes; but I was an Automaton. I was n't anybody; so I was made
to wear a pair of thin boots, that clung to my feet a great deal
closer than my skin did,--a great deal, sir.

"Well, we reached Cambridge. It's a pretty place, you know; and I

rather liked it until I arrived at the college buildings. Then I did
n't like the looks of anything, except the green trees, and the
grass, and the shady walks. And I wondered where I could learn the
most useful knowledge, within or without the college.

"I was ushered in, and my college life began. To narrate to you all
that made up that life, would be irksome to me and tedious to you. I
was taught much that I didn't believe then, and don't believe now,
and don't think I ever shall. I was made to subscribe to certain
forms, and with my lips to adopt certain views, which my heart all
the time rebelled against, and reason told me were false. But I said
I believed, and I did believe after the fashion of the times; for I
believe it's fashionable to believe what you don't know anything
about, and the more of this belief you have the better you are. So I
believed what my teachers told me, because-why, because I was an
Automaton.

"When I returned home, I found myself, quite unexpectedly, a lion.

All the neighbors flocked in to see the young man who'd been to
college, and in the evening a dozen young ladies--marriageable young
ladies--called on me. I tried to have a pleasant time; and should
have had, if I had n't been pulled and pushed, and made a
puppet-show of; made to go through all my college exercises, to
please the pride of my immediate relatives, and minister to the
wonder-loving souls of their friends. But, though I did n't want to
do all this, though I had much preferred to have sat down and had a
quiet talk with one or two,--talked over all that had taken place
during my absence, our lives and loves,--yet I was obliged to, sir. I
was an Automaton.

"One day,--it was but a week after I had returned,--my father took me
into his room, and said he had something to say to me. I knew very
well, before he said so, that something out of the usual course was
to take place; for, all the morning, he had been as serious and
reserved as a deacon at a funeral, and I had caught him holding sly
talks with my mother in out-of-the-way places.-I knew something was
to happen.

"I sat down, and he did. And then he went on to say that I had
probably had some thoughts of marriage. I merely responded, 'Some.'

"He then remarked that every young man should calculate to get a
wife and settle down; and that 'old folks' had had experience, and
knew a vast deal more about such things than young folks did; and
that the latter, when they followed the advice of the former, always
were well-to-do in the world, always were respected.

"I began to see what he was driving at. I looked very serious at
him, and he a great deal more so at me.

"He talked to me half an hour; it was the longest half-hour I had

known since I first measured time. He expatiated on the wisdom of
old people; told me I was inexperienced. I, who had been to college!
I, who had lived a city life! I was inexperienced! But I let him go
on-I could n't help it-you know what I was.

"He then drew his chair closer mine, lowered the tone of his voice,
and said,

"'I've picked out a wife for you. It's Squire Parsons' daughter,
Susan Jane Maria. She'll be an excellent wife to you, and mother to
your children.'

"If I had been anything else than what I was, I should have sprang
up and declared my own ability to choose a wife for me and 'a mother
for my children;' but I did n't do any such thing. I nodded a calm
assent to all he said; for you know, sir; I was an Automaton.

"I was to go with my father, that night, and see Susan,--she that was
to be my Susan,--O, no, not so; I was to be her Jacob. So, when tea
was over, and I had been 'fixed up,'-I was fixed, I tell you,--father
led the way over Higginses' rough pasture. I should have gone round,
in the road, where it was decent walking, if I had been anybody; but
I was n't any one; I was a--well, you know what. I got one of my
boots full of water, and father fell down and bruised his nose; but
I took off my boot and poured the water out, and he put a piece of
court-plaster on his nose,--a great black piece,--and we did n't look
as bad as we might, so he said; and so I said, 'of course.'

"Susan was at home, seated in the middle of a great room, as if on

exhibition; and perhaps she was,--I thought so. I had seen Susan
before, and always disliked her. There was nothing in her personal
appearance, or her mind, that pleased me. I never met her without
marking her future life as that of an old maid. But she was to be my
wife; father said so, mother shouted amen; and I was to love her,
and so I said I did, 'of course.'

"It seemed to me that she knew all about what I came for; for she
put out her little slim hand, that never made a loaf of bread nor
held a needle, but had only fingered the leaves of Greek and Latin
Lexicons, and volumes of Zoology and Ornithology, and thrummed
piano-keys,--all very well in their place (don't think I depreciate
them), but very bad when their place is so large that there's no
room for anything else,--very bad, sir.

"As she took my hand she attempted to kiss me; but, being rather
shy, I dodged when I saw her lips a-coming, and they went plump on
to father's nose, and exploded on his piece of court-plaster.

"It was all fixed that night, and I was to be married one week from
the ensuing Sunday.

"We went home. I received a smile from those who were so considerate
as to hunt me up a wife.
"If you'd seen the Greentown Gazette a fortnight after, and had
looked at the list of marriages, you might have read, 'Married: In
this town, by Rev. Ebenezer Pilgrade, Mr. Jacob Jenkins, Jr.
(recently from college), to Susan Jane Maria Parsons, estimable
daughter of Nehemiah Q. Parsons; all of this place.'

"We lived at home. My wife soon found out what I was, found out that
I was an Automaton, and she pulled the wires and put me in motion,
in any way she wished. I opened an office, put out a sign, and for a
time practised law and physic, and when the minister was sick took
his place and preached. I preached just what they wanted me to. I
felt more like an Automaton than ever, stuck up in a high box,
talking just what had been talked a thousand times from the same
place. It would n't do, I was told, to have any ideas of my own;
and, if had them, I must n't speak them. So my parish and me got
along pretty well.

"Of course I had joined the church. I was told that I must, and so I
did; but I won't tell you what my thoughts were in regard to what I
was told to believe, for that's delicate ground. I don't know what
your religion is, sir, and I might offend you, and I would n't do so
for the world. You see I am an Automaton yet. I'll do just as you
want me to. I hate to be so; but, somehow or other, I can't be
otherwise. It's my nature.

"You think I'm prosy. I won't say much more, for I see you take out
your watch as though you wished I'd stop, that you might go; so I'll
close with 'finally,' as I do in preaching.

"Well, then, finally, father died, mother died, Susan run off, and
I've become almost discouraged. I have three children to take care
of, but they are good children. They do just precisely as I tell
them, and won't do anything without asking me whether it's right;
and I ask somebody else. They have n't got any minds of their own,
any more than I have. They'll do just as I tell them. I've nobody in
particular now to tell me what I shall do; so I take everybody's
advice, and try to do as everybody wants me to do. I've come to
Boston on a visit, and shall go back to-night, if you think best.

"Now I've given you my autobiography. You can do just what you want
to with it,--print it, if you like. People, perhaps, will laugh at me
when they read it; but perhaps there are other Automatons besides
me."

He came to a full stop here; and, as it was getting late, I arose,

wished him well, bade him good-by, and left. I had proceeded but a
few steps, when I felt a touch on my shoulder, and, turning, found
it was the Automaton, who had come to ask me whether I thought he
had better go home that night.

TO THE UNKNOWN DONOR OF A BOUQUET.

 RICHEST flowers of every hue,
Lightly fringed with evening dew;
Sparkling as from Eden's bowers,
Brightly tinted-beauteous flowers!
Thee I've found, and thee I'll own,
Though from one to me unknown;
Knowing this, that one who'll send
Such a treasure is my friend.
Who hath sent thee?-Flora knows,
For with care she reared the rose.
Lo! here's a name!-it is the key
That will unlock the mystery;
This will tell from whom and why
Thou didst to my presence hie.
Wait-the hand's disguised!-it will
Remain to me a mystery still.
But I'm a "Yankee," and can "guess"
Who wove this flowery, fairy tress.
Yea, more than this, I almost know
Who tied this pretty silken bow,
Whose hand arranged them, and whose taste
Each in such graceful order placed.
Yet, if unknown thou 'dst rather be,
Let me wish this wish for thee:
May'st thou live in joy forever,
Naught from thee true pleasure sever;
From thy heart arise no sigh;
May no tear bedew thine eye.
Joys be many, cares be few,
Smooth the path thou shalt pursue;
And heaven's richest blessings shine
Ever on both thee and thine.
Round thy path may fairest flowers,
As in amaranthine bowers,
Bloom and blossom bright and fair,
Load with sweets the ambient air!
Be thy path with roses strewn,
All thy hours to care unknown;
Sorrow cloud thy pathway never,
Happiness be thine forever.

TO A SISTER IN HEAVEN.

SISTER, in thy spirit home,

Knowest thou my path below?
Knowest thou the steps I roam,
And the devious road I go?
Many years have past since I
Bade thee here a sad farewell;
Many past since thou didst die,
Since I heard thy funeral knell.
Thou didst go when thou wast young;
Scarcely hadst thou oped thine eyes
To the world, and it had flung
Its bright sunshine from the skies,
Ere thy Maker called for thee,
Thou obeyed his high behest;
Then I mourned, yet knew thou 'dst be
Throned on high among the blest.
Gently thou didst fold thy wing,
Gently thou didst sink in sleep;
Birds their evening songs did sing,
And the evening shades did creep
Through the casement, one by one,
Telling of departing day;
Then, thou and the glorious sun
Didst together pass away.
Yet that sun hath rose since then,
And hath brought a joy to me;
Emblem 't is time will be when
Once again I shall see thee,--
See thee in immortal bloom,
Numbered with the ransomed throng,
Where no sorrow sheds its gloom
O'er the heart, or chills the song.
Spirit sister, throned on high,
Now methinks I hear thee speak
From thy home within the sky,
In its accents low and meek.
Thou art saying, "Banish sadness;
God is love,--O, trust him over!
Heaven is filled with joy and gladness-
It shall be thy home forever."
This thou sayest, and thy voice,
Like to none of earth I've heard,
Bids my fainting soul rejoice;
Follow God's reveal�d word,
Follow that, 't is faithful true;
'Mid the trackless maze of this,
It will guide the pilgrim through
To a world of endless bliss.
Sister, in thy spirit home,
Thou dost know my path below,
Thou dost know the steps I roam,
And the road I fain would go.
If my steps would err from right,
If I'd listen to the wrong,
If I'd close my eyes to light,
Mingle with earth's careless throng:
Then wilt thou with power be nigh;
Power which angel spirits wield,
That temptation may pass by,
Be thou near my soul to shield!
As I close this simple lay,
As I over it do bow,
Sister, thou art round my way,
 Thou art standing near me now.

I DREAMED OF THEE, LAST NIGHT, LOVE!

I DREAMED of thee last night, love,

And I thought that one came down
From scenes of azure light, love,
The most beautiful to crown.
He wandered forth where diamonds
And jewels rich and rare
Shone brightly 'mid the glittering throng,
Yet crown�d no one there.
He pass�d by all others,
Till he came to where thou stood;
And chose thee as the beautiful,
Because thou wast so good.
And said, as there he crowned thee,
That Goodness did excel
The jewels all around thee
In which beauty seemed to dwell.
For Goodness is that beauty
Which will forever last;
Then, crowning thee most beautiful,
From earth to heaven he passed.

THEY TELL OF HAPPY BOWERS.

THEY tell of happy bowers,

Where rainbow-tinted flowers

Bloom bright with sweetest fragrance, and never, never die;

Where friends are joined forever,

Where parting hours come never,

And that that happier land is far beyond the sky;--

That when this life is ended

The spirit there ascended

Shall meet in happy unison the spirits gone before;
 And all that here hath vexed us,

With seeming ill perplexed us,

We shall see was for the best, and God of all adore.

Then, brother, hope and cheer thee,

For glorious hours are near thee,

If thou but livest holy, and hope, and trust, and wait;

Soon, trials all departed,

Thou, heavenward, homeward started,

Shalt find a glorious entrance at heaven's golden gate.

MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT.

MAN cannot live and love not;

Around, beneath, above,
There is that's bright and beautiful,
And worthy of his love;
There is in every object
That works out nature's plan,
Howe'er so low and humble,
That's worth the love of man.
Each blade of grass that springeth
From earth to beauty fair;
Each tiny bird that wingeth
Its course through trackless air;
Each worm that crawls beneath thee,
Each creature, great and small,
Is worthy of thy loving;
For God hath made them all.
Should earthly friends forsake thee,
And earth to thee look drear;
Should morning's dark forebodings
But fill thy soul with fear,
Look up! and cheer thy spirit-
Up to thy God above;
He'll be thy friend forever-
Forever!-"God is Love!"

BETTER THAN GOLD.

 "Find we Lorenzo wiser for his wealth?
What if thy rental I inform, and draw
An inventory new to set thee right?
Where is thy treasure? Gold says, 'Not in me!'
And not in me, the diamond. Gold is poor,
Indies insolvent-. Seek it in thyself,
Seek in thy naked self, and find it there."

GOLD is, in itself, harmless-brilliant, beautiful to look upon; but,

when man entertains an ungovernable, all-absorbing love of it, gold
is his curse and a mill-stone around his neck, drawing him down to
earth. How much sorrow that love has caused! O, there is love that
is angelic! But high and holy as love is when bestowed upon a worthy
object, in like proportion is it base and ignoble when fixed upon
that which is unworthy.

It may well be questioned whether, taking a broad view of the

matter, gold has not produced more evil than good. Point out, if you
can, one crime, be it the most heinous and inhuman of which you can
possibly conceive, that has not been perpetrated for the sake of
gold, or has not its equal in the history of the battle for wealth.
We can conceive of no worse a thing than a human soul idolizing a
mass of shining metal, and counting out, with lean and tremulous
hands, the coined dollars. Late and early the devotee bows at the
shrine. No motive can induce him to remove his fixed gaze from the
god he worships. No act too base for him to execute if gold holds
out its glittering purse. No tears of widows, no orphan's cry, no
brother's famishing look, no parent's imploring gaze, no wife's
loving appeal, doth he heed; but on, and on, day by day, night by
night, he rakes together the scattered fragments, rears his altar,
and lays his soul upon it, a burnt sacrifice to his God.

It was the first day of the trial, and the excitement was intense.
The court-house was filled at an early hour to its utmost capacity,
whilst the lanes leading to it were completely blocked up with
crowds of inquisitive inquirers. The professor left his study, the
trader his accounts, and the mechanic dismissed for a while the toil
of his avocation.

The judges had arrived; the counsel of both parties were at their
respective desks; all were eager to get a full sight-if not this, a
passing glance-at the prisoner's face. They were looking for his
arrival, and if a close carriage drew near, they believed he was
within, until the carriage passing by withered all their hopes, and
blasted their fond expectations. Such was the state of feeling when
a rumor began to pass round that he, the prisoner, had been
privately conveyed into court. Some believed, and some disbelieved;
some went away, whilst others remained, not giving up all hope of
having their desire gratified.-But why all this?

Pedro Castello, a young man, an Italian by birth, had been indicted,

and was soon to be tried, charged with two heinous crimes-murder and
robbery. The murdered was an aged person, one of a very quiet and
sedate character, whose every movement seemed to be by stealth, and
who seemed to care for none but himself, but who took particular
interest in what he did care for. This individual had, for quite a
number of years, been a resident in the town where the incidents we
now propose to relate transpired.

Lorenzo Pedan had the reputation of being wealthy. Whether he was so

or not, no one could positively determine; at least, many thought
so, and here a farmer, there a mechanic, offered to bet all that
he was worth that "Renzo," as he was called, could show his fifty
thousand. It was well known that he was once in prosperous business;
that then, as the saying is, he moved on "swimmingly." But, two or
three years previous to the time we now speak of, he suddenly gave
up business, closed his store, hired a small and retired house, and
lived in as secluded a state as living in the world and not in a
forest would admit of. He was his own master, his own servant, cook
and all else. Visitors seldom if ever darkened his door; and, when
necessity obliged him to leave his house, it was with the utmost
precaution he made fast his door before starting. Proceeding a short
distance, he became possessed with the idea that all was not right,
and would return to his dwelling closely to scrutinize every part.
This and many other characteristics of Pedan induced a belief in the
minds of his townsmen that he had by degrees become possessed of an
avaricious disposition, and that his miserly views of the "whole
duty of man" had induced him to secrete huge boxes of silver, and
bags, of gold in crevices of his cellar, vacancies in his chimney,
and musty and dusty corners of his garret.

Various were the tricks played upon Lorenzo by the boys of the town.
At times they would place logs of wood against his door, and arrange
them in such a position that when the door was opened they would
inevitably fall in; yet he did not care for this,--we mean he found
no fault with this trick, for he usually claimed the fuel for
damages occasioned by its coming in too close proximity with his
aged self.

Sometimes these "villanous boys," as widow Todd, a notorious

disseminator of town scandal, called them, would fasten his door;
then, having hid behind some bushes, laugh heartily as they beheld
Mr. Pedan exhibit himself at the window, at which place he got out.
We will not attempt to relate one half or one quarter of these
tricks; we will say nothing of sundry cats, kittens, etc., that were
crowded into boxes and marked "Pedro-this side up with infinite
care;" nor about certain black, white, and yellow dogs, that were
tied to all his door-handles, and made night hideous in the exercise
of their vocal powers. We will not weary our readers with such
details. Suffice it to say that they were all perpetrated, and that
he, the aforesaid Lorenzo Pedan, received the indignities heaped
upon him with a degree of patience and fortitude rivalled only by
that of the martyrs of the dark ages. He was, in fact, a martyr to
his love of gold; and a recompense for all his outward troubles was
the satisfaction of knowing that he might be rich some time, if he
was prudent.

Lorenzo was undoubtedly rich, yet he derived no enjoyment from his

abundance; on the contrary, it caused him much trouble, care, and
watchfulness; and not possessing any benevolent feelings, prompting
him to spend his gold and silver for his own good or the good of his
fellow-men, the poorest man, with all his poverty,--he who only by
his daily toil earned his daily bread,--was far more wealthy than he.
He passed on in this way for some time, when, on a certain morning,
he not having made his appearance for some days previous, his door
was burst open, and the expectations of not a few realized upon
finding him murdered. All the furniture and even the wainscotings of
the house were thrown about in dread disorder; scarcely an article
seemed to be in its right place. The robber or robbers were
undoubtedly on the alert for money, and they left no spot untouched
where possibly they might find it. They pulled up parts of the
floor, tore away the ceiling, and left marks of their visit from
cellar to garret.

Immediate efforts were made and measures taken to ferret out the
perpetrator of this daring crime. These were, for a considerable
length of time, fruitless, and, the excitement that at first arose
being somewhat quelled, some thought the search that had been
instituted was given, or about to be given, up, when a man by the
name of Smith came forward, and stated that, about nine days
previous to the discovery, as he was passing the house of the
deceased, he heard a faint cry, as of one in distress, and, turning
round, noticed a young man running in great haste. He, at the time,
thought little of this incident, as he supposed the boys were
engaged in some of their tricks. It had entirely passed his
recollection, until, hearing of the murder, he instantly recollected
the circumstance, and now he did not entertain a doubt that the
young man whom he saw was the murderer.

It appeared strange to some that this man had not made all this
known before; and that now, at so late a period, he should come
forward and with such apparent eagerness make the disclosures. Being
asked why he had not come forward before, he promptly replied that
he did not wish to suspect any person, for fear he might be
mistaken.

Efforts were now made, and excitement had again risen, to find out a
young man answering the description given by Smith, whom he alleged
to be one short in stature, and wearing a fur cap. Pedro Castello,
by birth an Italian, by trade a jeweller, who had resided in the
town a few years, was of this description. He was not very tall,
neither very short; but the fur cap he wore made up all deficiencies
in stature. Smith swore to his identity, and, at his instigation, he
was arrested, and with great coolness and self-possession passed
through a short examination, which resulted in his being placed in
custody to await his trial at the next session of a higher court.
The only evidence against him was that of Smith and his son; that of
the former was in substance what has already been stated, and that
of the latter only served to support and partially confirm the
evidence of the former. A host of townsmen appeared to attest to the
good character of the accused; and, with such evidence for and
against, he was committed.

Never was man led to prison who behaved with a greater degree of
composure. Conscious of his innocence, he acted not the part of a
guilty man, but, relying upon justice for an impartial trial, he
walked with a firm step, and unflinchingly entered a felon's cell.

In two months his trial was to commence, and that short period soon
elapsed. The morning of the trial came; all was excitement, as we
have before said. A trial for murder! Such an event forms an era in
the history of a town, from which many date. That one so long
esteemed as an excellent neighbor, and of whose untarnished
character there could be no doubt, should be suddenly arrested,
charged with the committal of a crime at the thought of which human
nature revolts, was a fact the belief of which was hardly credible.
He himself remained not unmoved by the vast concourse of spectators;
he thought he could read in the pitying glance of each an acquittal.
An acquittal at the bar of public opinion always has and always will
be esteemed of more value than one handed in by a jury of twelve;
yet by that jury of twelve men he was to be tried,--he must look to
them for his release, if he was to obtain it. Their decision would
condemn him to an ignoble death, or bid him go forth once more a
free man. He had obtained the best of counsel, by whose advice he
selected, from twenty-five jurors, twelve, whose verdict was to seal
his fate.

The trial commenced. A deep silence prevailed, broken only by the

voice of the government officer, who briefly stated an outline of
the facts, to wit: "That murder and robbery had been committed; that
a young man was seen hastily leaving the spot upon which the crime
was committed; that the appearance of the defendant was precisely
that of the person thus seen; said he should not enter into an
examination of the previous character of the prisoner, giving as a
reason that a man may live long as a person of unquestionable
character, and after all yield to some strong temptation and fall
from the standard of excellence he had hitherto attained; he should
present all the facts that had come to his knowledge, tending to
substantiate the charge, and would leave it to the prisoner and his
counsel to undermine the evidence he presented, and to prove the
accused innocent, if possible; all that he should do would be to
attempt to prove him guilty; if he failed to do so a verdict must be
rendered accordingly." Having said this, he called upon his
witnesses. Those who first discovered the outrage were called and
testified to what they saw. John Smith was next called, and gave in
as evidence what has before been stated; at the close of a strict
cross-examination he returned to his seat. His son Levi was next
called, and stated that his father was out the night he himself
stated he was; he went out about half-past six or seven; did not say
where he was going, or how long he should be out; he came home about
eleven.

Prisoner's counsel here inquired whether it was usual, upon his

father's going out, to state where he was going or when he should
return. He answered in the affirmative. This was all the knowledge
Levi Smith had of the affair, and with this the evidence for the
government closed.

The counsel for the defendant stated, in the opening, that all he
should attempt to prove would be the bad character of the principal
witness, John Smith, and the unexceptionable character of the
prisoner. He would prove that the reputation of Smith for truth and
veracity was bad, and that therefore no reliance could be placed
upon his statements. He should present the facts as they were, and
leave it to them to say whether his client was innocent or guilty.

A person by the name of Renza was
about two years he had resided in
he esteemed him as a friend; that
brother,--had never seen anything
came directly home from his place
first called, who stated that for
the house with the prisoner; that
the prisoner had treated him as a
amiss in his conduct,--at night he
of business, was generally in at
nine, seldom out later than ten,--remembered the night in
question,--thought he was in about ten, but was not certain on that
point,--had been acquainted with John Smith for a number of
years,--had not said much to him during that time,--had often seen him
walking about the streets,--had known him to be quarrelsome and
avaricious, easily provoked, and rather lacking in good principle.
After a few cross-questions the witness took his seat.

Seven others were called, whose testimony was similar to the above,
placing the evidence of the principal government witness in rather a
disagreeable light. The evidence being in on both sides, the
prisoner's counsel stood forth to vindicate the innocence of
Castello. For three hours he faithfully advocated the cause, dwelt
long upon the reputation of Smith, and asked whether a man should be
convicted upon such rotten evidence. He brought to light the
character of Smith, and that of Castello; placed them in contrast,
and bade them judge for themselves. He wished to inquire why Smith,
when he heard the terrible scream, when he saw a person running from
the place whence the sound proceeded, why, when he heard and beheld
all this, he did not make an alarm; why did Smith keep it a secret,
and not till nine days had elapsed make this known? "Perhaps he
would reply," argued the counsel, "that he did not wish to suspect
any person, fearing the person suspected might be the wrong one; if
so, why did he not inform of the person he saw running? If he was
not the doer of the deed, perhaps he might relate something that
would lead to the detection of him who was. Beside, if he had doubts
whether it was right to inform then, why does he do so now with so
much eagerness? It would be natural for one, after hearing such
fearful noises,--after seeing what he testifies to having seen,--to
have related it to some one; but no-Smith keeps all this important
information treasured up, and not till two weeks had nearly passed
does he disclose it. But, gentlemen, I have my doubts as to the
truth of John's evidence. It is my firm belief that he never saw a
person running from that house; he might have heard the noise-I will
not dispute that. I believe his story has been cut and dried for the
occasion, and surely nine days and nights have afforded him ample
time to do so. The brains of an ox could concoct such ideas in nine
days. Now comes the inquiry, why should he invent such a story? Of
what benefit can it be to him to appear in a crowded courtroom?
Gentlemen, I confess myself unable to give you his reasons; to him
and to his God they are only known. The veil which, in my opinion,
now shrouds this affair, will some day be withdrawn, and we shall
know the truth, even as it is."

The defence here closed. The officer for the prosecution now arose,
and with equal faithfulness and ability argued his side of the
question. He thought the reasons why Smith had not before informed
were full and explicit; and, as to the testimony of the eight as to
the past good character of the prisoner, he saw no reason why a man
should be always good because for two or more years he had been so.
A great temptation was presented; he was young--perhaps at the
moment regardless of the result, the penalty of the crime; he did
not resist, but yielded; and as to the argument of the learned
counsel, that Mr. S. did not see what he testifies to have seen, it
is useless to refute such an unfounded allegation. Can you suppose
Smith to be benefited by this prosecution further than to see
justice have its dues? Settle it then in your minds that Mr. Smith
did actually see all he says he did. We come next to the description
given by Smith of the man seen. He said he was short in stature, and
wearing a fur cap. Look at the prisoner,--is he not short?-and the
testimony of two of the previous witnesses distinctly affirm that
for the past six weeks he has worn a fur cap. What more evidence do
you want to prove his guilt?

The prosecuting officer here closed. We have given but a faint

outline of his remarks; they were forcible and to the point.

It was near the dusk of the second day's trial that the judge arose
to charge the jury. He commented rather severely upon the attempt to
impeach the character of Smith. His address was not lengthy; and in
about thirty minutes the jury retired, while a crowded audience
anxiously waited their return. It was not till the rays of the
morning sun began to be seen that it was rumored that they had
arrived at a decision and would soon enter. All was silent as the
tomb. The prisoner, although aware that his life was at stake, sat
in great composure, frequently holding converse with his friends who
gathered around. How anxiously all eyes were turned towards the door
by which they were to enter, wishing, yet dreading, to hear the
final secret! The interest of all watched their movements and seemed
to read acquittal upon each juror's face. The prisoner arose, the
foreman and he looking each other in the face. The clerk put the
question, "Guilty, or not guilty?" The ticking of the clock was
distinctly heard. "Guilty!" responded the foreman. A verdict so
unexpected by all could not be received in silence, and, as with one
voice, the multitude shouted "False! false! FALSE!" With great
difficulty were they silenced and restrained from rescuing the
prisoner, who, though greatly disappointed, heard the verdict
without much agitation. Innocent, he was convinced that justice
would finally triumph, though injustice for a moment might seem to
have the ascendency.

One week had passed. Sentence had been pronounced upon the young
Italian, and, notwithstanding the strenuous efforts his friends made
for his pardon, he was committed to prison to await the arrival of
that day when innocence should suffer in the place of guilt, and he
should by the rough hands of the law be unjustly dragged to the
gallows, and meet his death at so wretched a place; yet far better
was it for him, and of this was he aware, to be led to that place
free, from the blood of all men, than to proceed there a guilty
criminal, his hands dyed in the warm blood of a fellow-creature,
pointed out as a murderer, and looked upon but with an eye of
condemnation. He was certain that in the breasts of hundreds a
spark, yea, a burning flame, of pity shone for him,--that he met not
his death uncared for,--that many a tear would flow in pity for him,
and that he would wend his way to the scaffold comforted by the
consciousness of his innocence, and consoled by many dear friends.

The day had arrived for the execution, and crowds of people flocked
to the spot to gratify their love of sight-seeing-to allay their
curiosity-even though that sight were nothing less than the death of
a fellow-being. Crowds had assembled. A murder had been committed,
and now another was to follow. To be sure it was to be executed
"according to law," but that law was inspired with the spirit of
revenge. Its motto was "blood for blood." It forgot the precepts of
Christ, "forgive your enemies;" and that that which is a wrong when
committed by one in secret, is no less a wrong when committed by
many, or by their sanction, in public. The condemned stood upon the
death-plank, yet he hoped justice would be done. "Hope!" what a
cheering word! 't will nerve man for every trial. Yes, Castello
hoped, and relied upon that kind arm that had hitherto supported
him, and had enabled him to bear up under an accumulated mass of
affliction. He had a full consciousness of innocence, and to the
oft-repeated inquiry as to his state of mind he replied, "I am
innocent, and that truth is to me better than gold."

It lacks but five minutes of the appointed time-now but three-but

two. But yonder the crowd seem excited. What is the cause of the
sudden movement? But a few moments since and all were silently
gazing at the centre of attraction, the scaffold. Lo, a messenger,
breathless with haste, shouting "INNOCENT! INNOCENT! INNOCENT!" and
a passage is made for him to approach, whilst thousands inquire the
news. He answers not, save by that shrill shout, "INNOCENT!" and
pressing forward touches the gallows just as Castello is about to be
launched forth. The stranger ascends the steps and begs that the
execution may be deferred, at least until he can relate some recent
disclosures. His wish is granted, and he speaks nearly as follows:

"The testimony of the principal witness was doubted. Last night I

remained at the house of Smith. Owing to the great excitement I did
not retire to rest, and sat in a room adjoining that in which Smith
lodged. About midnight I heard a voice in that room. I went to the
door, and, fearing he was sick and desired aid, I entered. He was
asleep, and did not awake upon my entering, but continued talking. I
thought it strange, and thinking I might be amused, and having
nothing else to do, I sat and listened. He spoke in somewhat this
manner, and you may judge of my surprise while I listened:

"'I'm rich; too bad Pedro should die; but I'm rich; no matter, I'm
rich. Kings kill their millions for a little money. I only kill one
man; in six months 't will be forgotten; then I'll go to the bank of
earth back of the red mill and get the gold; I placed it there safe,
and safe it is. Ha, ha! I made that story in nine days-so I did, and
might have made it in less; let him die. But supposing I should be
detected; then it may be that I shall find that Pedro is right when
he says there is something better than gold. But I am in no danger.
The secret is in my own heart, locked up, and no one has the key but
myself; so cheer thee, my soul, I'm safe!-and yet I don't feel
right. I shall feel, when Pedro dies; that I kill him; but why
should I care? I who have killed one, may kill another!'

"After waiting some time, and hearing no more, I hastened to the

spot he had alluded to, for the purpose of satisfying myself whether
what he had ramblingly spoken of was truth or fancy. After searching
the hill for over an hour, I found a stone, or rather stumbled
against it; I threw it aside, so that others might not stumble over
it as I had, when to my astonishment I found it to be a large flat
one, beneath which I found a collection of bags and boxes, which
upon opening I found filled with gold and silver coin, and in each
box a small paper,--one of which I hold in my hand; all are alike,
and written upon each are these words:

"'This gold and silver is the property of Pedan, who enjoyed it but
little himself; he leaves it to posterity, and hopes that they may
find more pleasure and more satisfaction in its use than he ever
did.'

"Not content with this, I pushed my researches still further, and,

having taken out all the bags and boxes, I found this knife, all
bloody as you see it, and this hatchet in nearly the same condition.
Now I ask if it is not the course of justice to delay the execution
of this young man until more examinations can be made?"

The executioner obeyed the mandate of the sheriff, and stayed his
avenging hand.

"Better than gold!" shouted the prisoner, and sank helpless upon the
platform.

That day John Smith was arrested, and, being bluntly charged with
the murder, confessed all. Castello was immediately released, and
went forth a free man.

In four weeks Smith was no more of earth; he had paid the penalty of
his crimes, and died not only a murderer but a perjured man.

The next Sabbath the pastor of the church discoursed upon the
subject, and an indescribable thrill pervaded the hearts of some of
the people as they repeated the words, "Forgive us our trespasses as
we forgive those who trespass against us."

GONE AWAY.

HERE, where now are mighty cities,

Once the Indians' wigwam stood;
Once their council-fires illumined,
Far and near, the tangled wood.
Here, on many a grass-grown border,
Then they met, a happy throng;
Rock and hill and valley sounded
With the music of their song.
Now they are not,--they have vanished,
And a voice doth seem to say,
Unto him who waits and listens,
"Gone away,--gone away."
Yonder in those valleys gathered
Many a sage in days gone by;
Thence the wigwam's smoke ascended,
Slowly, peacefully, on high.
Indian mothers thus their children
Taught around the birchen fire,--
"Look ye up to the great Spirit!
To his hunting-grounds aspire."
Now those fires are all extinguished;
Fire and wigwam, where are they?
Hear ye not those voices whispering,
"Gone away,--gone away!"
Here the Indian girl her tresses
 Braided with a maiden's pride;
Here the lover wooed and won her,
On Tri-mountain's grassy side.
Here they roamed from rock to river,
Mountain peak and hidden cave;
Here the light canoe they paddled
O'er the undulating wave.
All have vanished-lovers, maidens,
Meet not on these hills to-day,
But unnumbered voices whisper,
"Gone away,--gone away!"
"Gone away!" Yes, where the waters
Of the Mississippi roll,
And Niagara's ceaseless thunders
With their might subdue the soul,
Now the noble Indian standeth
Gazing at the eagle's flight,
Conscious that the great good Spirit
Will accomplish all things right.
Though like forest-leaves they're passing,
They who once held boundless sway,
And of them 't will soon be written,
"Gone away,--gone away!"
As they stand upon the mountain,
And behold the white man press
Onward, onward, never ceasing,
Mighty in his earnestness;
As they view his temples rising,
And his white sails dot the seas,
And his myriad thousands gathering,
Hewing down the forest trees;
Thus they muse: "Let them press onward,
Not far distant is the day
When of them a voice shall whisper,
'Gone away,--gone away!'"

LINES TO MY WIFE.

THOU art ever standing near me,

In wakeful hours and dreams;
Like an angel-one, attendant
On life and, all its themes;
And though I wander from thee,
In lands afar away,
I dream of thee at night, and wake
To think of thee by day.
In the morning, when the twilight,
Like a spirit kind and true,
Comes with its gentle influence,
It whispereth of you.
 For I know that thou art present,
With love that seems to be
A band to bind me willingly
To heaven and to thee.
At noon-day, when the tumult and
The din of life is heard,
When in life's battle each heart is
With various passions stirred,
I turn me from the blazonry,
The fickleness of life,
And think of thee in earnest thought,
My dearest one-my wife!
When the daylight hath departed,
And shadows of the night
Bring forth the stars, as beacons fair
For angels in their flight,
I think of thee as ever mine,
Of thee as ever best,
And turn my heart unto thine own,
To seek its wonted rest.
Thus ever thou art round my path,
And doubly dear thou art
When, with my lips pressed to thine own,
I feel thy beating heart.
And through the many joys and griefs,
The lights and shades of life,
It will be joy to call thee by
The holy name of "wife!"
I love thee for thy gentleness,
I love thee for thy truth;
I love thee for thy joyousness,
Thy buoyancy of youth
I love thee for thy soul that soars
Above earth's sordid pelf;
And last, not least, above these all,
I love thee for thyself.
Now come to me, my dearest,
Place thy hand in mine own;
Look in mine eyes, and see how deep
My love for thee hath grown;
And I will press thee to my heart,
Will call thee "my dear wife,"
And own that thou art all my joy
And happiness of life.

CHEER UP.

CHEER up, cheer up, my own fair one!

Let gladness take the place of sorrow;
Clouds shall not longer hide the sun,--
 There is, there is a brighter morrow!
'T is coming fast. I see its dawn.
See! look you, how it gilds the mountain!
We soon shall mark its happy morn,
Sending its light o'er stream and fountain.
My bird sings with a clearer note;
He seems to know our hopes are brighter,
And almost tires his little throat
To let us know his heart beats lighter.
I wonder if he knows how dark
The clouds were when they gathered o'er us!
No matter,--gayly as a lark
He sings that bright paths are before us.
So cheer thee up, my brightest, best!
For clear's the sky, and fair's the weather.
Since hand in hand we've past the test,
Hence heart in heart we'll love together.

TRUST THOU IN GOD.

TRUST thou in God! he'll guide thee

When arms of flesh shall fail;
With every good provide thee,
And make his grace prevail.
Where danger most is found,
There he his power discloseth;
And 'neath his arm,
Free from all harm,
The trusting soul reposeth.
Trust thou in God, though sorrow
Thine earthly hopes destroy;
To him belongs the morrow,
And he will send thee joy.
When sorrows gather near,
Then he'll delight to bless thee!
When all is joy,
Without alloy,
Thine earthly friends caress thee.
Trust thou in God! he reigneth
The Lord of lords on high;
His justice he maintaineth
In his unclouded sky.
To triumph Wrong may seem,
The day, yet justice winneth,
And from the earth
Shall songs of mirth
Rise, when its sway beginneth.
When friends grow faint and weary,
When thorns are on thy way,
When life to thee is dreary,
 When clouded is thy day,
Then put thy trust in God,
Hope on, and hoping ever;
Give him thy heart,
Nor seek to part
The love which none can sever!

THE MINISTRATION OF SORROW.

THERE'S sorrow in thy heart to-day,

There's sadness on thy brow;
For she, the loved, hath passed away,
And thou art mourning now.
The eye that once did sparkle bright,
The hand that pressed thine own,
No more shall gladden on thy sight,--
Thy cherished one hath flown.
And thou didst love her well, 't is true;
Now thou canst love her more,
Since she hath left this world, and you,
On angel wings to soar
Above the world, its ceaseless strife,
Its turmoil and its care,
To enter on eternal life,
And reign in glory there.
O, let this thought now cheer thy soul,
And bid thy tears depart;
A few more days their course shall roll,
Thou 'lt meet, no more to part.
No more upon thine ear shall fall,
The saddening word "farewell"
No more a parting hour, but all
In perfect union dwell.
This world is not the home of man;
Death palsies with its gloom,
Marks out his life-course but a span,
And points him to the tomb;
But, thanks to Heaven, 't is but the gate
By which we enter bliss;
Since such a life our spirits wait,
O, cheer thy soul in this,--
And let the sorrow that doth press
Thy spirit down to-day
So minister that it may bless
Thee on thy pilgrim way;
And as thy friends shall, one by one,
Leave earth above to dwell,
Say thou to God, "Thy will be done,
Thou doest all things well."
GIVING PUBLICITY TO BUSINESS.

FROM the earliest ages of society some means have been resorted to
whereby to give publicity to business which would otherwise remain
in comparative privacy. The earliest of modes adopted was the crying
of names in the streets; and before the invention of printing men
were employed to traverse the most frequented thoroughfares, to
stand in the market-places and other spots of resort, and, with loud
voices, proclaim their message to the people. This mode is not
altogether out of use at the present time; yet it is not generally
considered a desirable one, inasmuch as it does not accomplish its
purpose so readily or completely as any one of the numerous other
methods resorted to.

Since the invention of printing, handbills, posters, and newspapers,

have been the principal channels of communication between the inside
of the dealer's shop and the eye of the purchaser, and from that to
the inside of his purse. So advantageous have these modes been
found, that it is a rare thing to find a single individual who does
not, either on a large or small scale, rein the press into the path
he travels, and make its labor conducive to the profits of his own.

England and France have taken the lead in this mode of giving
publicity to business; but the United States, with its unwillingness
to be beat in any way, on any terms, has made such rapid strides of
late in this enterprise, that the English lion will be left in the
rear, and the French eagle far in the background.

In London many curious devices have been used or proposed. Of these

was that of a man who wished to prepare a sort of bomb-shell, to be
filled with cards or bills, which, on reaching a certain elevation
above the city, would explode, and thus scatter these carrier doves
of information in all conceivable directions. In that city,
butchers, bakers, and fishmongers, receive quite an income from
persons who wish their cards attached to the various commodities in
which they deal. Thus, a person receiving a fish, a loaf, or a piece
of meat, finds the advertisement of a dealer in silks and satins
attached to the tail of the fish; that of an auction sale of
domestic flannels wrapped around the loaf; and perhaps flattering
notices of a compound for the extermination of rats around the meat.

In the evening, transparencies are carried about the streets,

suspended across the public ways or hung upon the walls.

In this country, no person has taken the lead of a famous doctor in

the way of advertising. Nearly every paper in the Union was
one-fourth filled with ably-written articles in praise of his
compound. In fact, he published papers of his own, the articles in
which were characterized by the "one idea principle," and that one
idea was contained in a bottle of Dr.--'s save all and cure all,
"none true but the genuine," "warranted not to burst the bottles or
become sour." In addition to these, he issued an almanac-millions of
them-bearing glad tidings to the sick and credulous, and sad tidings
to the "regulars" in the medical fraternity. These almanacs were
distributed everywhere. They came down on the American people like
rain-drops. The result was, as we all know, the doctor flourished in
a fortune equal to his fame, and disposed of his interest in the
business, a few years since, for one hundred thousand dollars.

The amount of capital invested in advertising is very great, some

firms expending thousands of dollars monthly in this mode of making
known their business. It has been truly said that a card in a
newspaper, that costs but a few dollars, is of far more value than
costly signs over one's door. The former thousands behold, and are
directed to your place of business; the latter very few notice who
do not know the fact it makes known before they see it.

Attracted by the good fortune of those who have advertised, nearly

every one has adopted the means that led to it; and the advertising
system has become universal.

We have been seated in a car, waiting impatiently for the sound of

the "last bell," when a person in a brown linen coat entered with an
armful of books, and gave to each passenger a copy, without a hint
about pay. Thanking him for the gift, and astonished at his
generosity, we proceeded to open it, when "Wonderful cures,"
"Consumption," "Scrofula," "Indigestion," and "Fits," greeted our
eyes on every page. Illustrated, too! Here was represented a man
apparently dying, and near by a figure that would appear to be a
woman were it not for two monstrous wings on its back, throwing
obstacles in the way of death in the shape of a two-quart bottle of
sarsaparilla syrup. Presumptive man in a brown linen coat, to
suppose that we, just on the eve of a pleasure excursion, are
troubled with such complaints, and stand in need of such a remedy!

You buy a newspaper, go home, seat yourself, and, in the

anticipation of at glorious intellectual feast, open its damp pages,
when, lo and behold! a huge show-bill falls from its embrace, and
you are informed of the consoling truth that you can have all your
teeth drawn for a trifle, and a now set inserted at a low price, by
a distinguished dentist from London. The bill is indignantly thrown
aside, and you commence reading an article under the caption of "An
interesting incident," which, when half finished, you find to refer
to a young lady whose complexion was made beautiful by the free use
of "Chaulks Poudres," a box of which can be obtained at 96
Azure-street, for 25 cts. After reading another column, headed "An
act of mercy," you find at its close a most pathetic appeal to your
tender sensibilities in an affectionate request for you to call on
Dr. Digg and have your corns extracted without pain. Despairing of
finding the "intellectual treat," you lay the paper aside, and
resolve upon taking a walk.

Before you are monstrous show-bills, emblazoned with large letters

and innumerable exclamation-points. Above you, flaunting flags with
flaming notices. Beneath you, marble slabs inscribed with the names
of traders and their goods. Around you, boys with their arms full of
printed notices, and men encased with boards on which are mammoth
posters. Sick of seeing these, you close your eyes; but you don't
escape so easily;--a dinner-bell is rung in your ears, and a voice,
if not like mighty thunder, at least like an embryo earthquake,
proclaims an auction sale, a child lost, or news for the afflicted.

And thus it is, the world is one great Babel. All is business,
business, and we ask for "some vast wilderness" in which to lie down
and get cool, and keep quiet.

In Paris, the people long since adopted a plan which has not yet
come in vogue among us. A long story is written; in the course of
this story, a dozen or more establishments receive the author's
laudations, which are so ingeniously interwoven that the reader is
scarcely aware of the design. For instance, Marnetta is going to an
evening party. In the morning she goes out, and is met by a sprig of
gentility, a young man of fashion, who cannot allow her to omit
entering the unrivalled store of Messrs. Veuns, where the most
beautiful silks, etc., are to be seen and purchased. Leaving this,
she next encounters a young lady acquaintance of prudent and
economical habits, by whom, "our heroine" is led into a store where
beauty and elegance are combined with durability and a low price.
She wishes perfumery; so she hastens to Viot & Sons; for none make
so good as they, and the fragrance of their store has been wafted on
the winds of all nations.

Thus is the story led on from one step to another, with its interest
not in the least abated, to the end. This embraces "puffery," as it
is called. And, while on this subject, we may as well bring up the
following specimen of this species of advertising. It was written by
Peter Seguin, on the occasion of the first appearance in Dublin of
the celebrated Mrs. Siddons. It caused much merriment at the time
among some, while in others, who could not relish a joke, it excited
anger.

"The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with
thousands of admiring spectators that went away without a sight.
This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of
Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the
Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen arch-princess of tears!
this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and
dagger! this child of Shakspeare! this world of weeping clouds! this
Juno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtains and
scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of
wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above
all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! she
was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy,
primrose, tuberose, sweet-brier, furze-blossom, gilliflower,
wallflower, cauliflower, aurica and rosemary! In short, she was the
bouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it was
thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the
audience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drew
up! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring,
all! what a sight was there! The fiddlers in the orchestra, 'albeit
unused to the melting mood!' blubbered like hungry children crying
for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between
the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon player's eyes in such
plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and, making a
spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first
fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the
leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and
sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of corks drawn from
the smelling-bottles, prevented the mistakes between the flats and
sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted!
forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong hysterics! The
world will hardly credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen
children, five women, one hundred tailors, and six common-council
men, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed
from the galleries, the slips and the boxes, to increase the briny
pond in the pit; the water was three feet deep, and the people that
were obliged to stand upon the benches were in that position up to
their ancles in tears."

There is nothing in the present style of criticism that can exceed

the above. The author actually reached the climax, and all attempts
to overtop him would be useless.

Of advertisements there have been many worthy of preservation: some

on account of the ingenuity displayed in their composition; some in
their wit; some for their domesticativeness,--matrimonial offers,
for example,--and others for the conceitedness exposed in them, the
ignorance of the writers, or the whimsicality of the matter
advertised. In 1804 there was advertised in an English paper, as for
sale, "The walk of a deceased blind beggar (in a charitable
neighborhood), with his dog and staff."

In the St. James Chronicle of 1772 was the following:

"Wanted, fifteen hundred or two thousand pounds, by a person not

worth a groat; who, having neither houses, lands, annuities, or
public funds, can offer no other security than that of a simple
bond, bearing simple interest, and engaging, the repayment of the
sum borrowed in five, six, or seven years, as may be, agreed on by
the parties," &c.

We do not know whether the advertiser obtained his pounds or not,

but such an advertisement, now-a-days, would draw forth a laugh much
sooner than the money; or, if "pounds" came, they would, most
probably, fall upon the recipient's shoulders, instead of into his
pocket.

The Chinese are not behind the age in this business. The following
is an instance in proof:

"ACHEU TEA CHINCOEU, Sculptor, respectfully acquaints masters of

ships trading from Canton to India that they may be furnished with
figure-heads, any size, according to order, at one-fourth of the
price charged in Europe. He also recommends, for private venture,
the following idols, brass, gold and silver: The hawk of Vishnoo,
which has reliefs of his incarnation in a fish, boar, lion, and
bull, as worshipped by the pious followers of Zoroaster; two silver
marmosets, with gold ear-rings; an aprimanes for Persian worship; a
ram, an alligator, a crab, a laughing hyena, with a variety of
household idols, on a small scale, calculated for family worship.
Eighteen months credit will be given, or a discount of fifteen per
cent. for prompt payment, on the sum affixed to each article.
Direct, Canton-street, Canton, under the marble Rhinoceros and gilt
Hydra."

We subjoin another, in which self-exaltation is pretty well carried

out.
"At the shop Tae-shing (prosperous in the extreme)--very good ink;
fine! fine! Ancient shop, great-grandfather, grandfather, father and
self, make this ink; fine and hard, very hard; picked with care,
selected with attention. I sell very good ink; prime cost is very
great. This ink is heavy; so is gold. The eye of the dragon glitters
and dazzles; so does this ink. No one makes like it. Others who make
ink make it for the sake of accumulating base coin, cheat, while I
make it only for a name, Plenty of A-kwan-tsaes (gentlemen) know my
ink-my family never cheated-they have always borne a good name. I
make ink for the 'Son of Heaven,' and all the mandarins in the
empire. As the roar of the tiger extends to every place, so does,
the fame' of the 'dragon's jewel' (the ink). Come, all A-kwan-
tsaes, come to my shop and see the sign Tae-shing at the side of the
door. It is Seou-shwuy-street (Small Water-street), outside the
south gate."

THE MISSION OF KINDNESS.

Go to the sick man's chamber; low and soft

Falls on the listening ear a sweet-toned voice;
A hand as gentle as the summer breeze,
Ever inclined to offices of good,
Smooths o'er the sick man's pillow, and then turns
To trim the midnight lamp, moisten the lips,
And, passing over, soothe the fevered brow.
Thus charity finds place in woman's heart;
And woman kind, and beautiful, and good,
Doth thus administer to every want,
Nor wearies in her task, but labors on,
And finds her joy in that which she imparts.
Go to the prisoner's cell; to-morrow's light
Shall be the last on earth he e'er shall see.
He mutters hate 'gainst all, and threatens ill
To every semblance of the human form.
Deep in his soul remorse, despair and hate,
Dwell unillumined by one ray of light,
And sway his spirit as the waves are swayed
By wind and storm. He may have cause to hold
His fellow-men as foes; for, at the first
Of his departure from an upright course,
They scorned and shunned and cursed him.
They sinn�d thus, and he, in spite for them,
Kept on his sullen way from wrong to wrong.
Which is the greatest sinner? He shall say
Who of the hearts of men alone is judge.
Now, in his cell condemned, he waits the hour,
The last sad hour of mortal life to him.
His oaths and blasphemies he sudden stays!
He thinks he hears upon his prison door
A gentle tap. O, to his hardened heart
That gentle sound a sweet remembrance brings
Of better days-two-score of years gone by,
Days when his mother, rapping softly thus,
Called him to morning prayer. Again 't is heard.
Is it a dream? Asleep! He cannot sleep
With chains around and shameful death before him!
Is it the false allurement of some foe
Who would with such enticement draw him forth
To meet destruction ere the appointed time?
Softened and calmed, each angry passion lulled,
By a soft voice, "Come in," he trembling calls.
Slow on its hinges turns the ponderous door,
And "Friend," the word that falls from stranger lips.
As dew on flowers, as rain on parch�d ground,
So came the word unto the prisoner's ear.
He speaks not-moves not. O, his heart is full,
Too full for utterance; and, as floods of tears
Flow from his eyes so all unused to weep,
He bows down low, e'en at the stranger's feet.
He had not known what 't was to have a friend.
The word came to him like a voice from heaven,
A voice of love to one who'd heard but hate.
"Friend!" Mysterious word to him who'd known no friend.
O, what a power that simple word hath o'er him!
As now he holds the stranger's hand in his,
And bows his head upon it, he doth seem
Gentle and kind, and docile as a child.
Repentance comes with kindness, goodness rears
Its cross on Calvary's height, inspiring hope
Which triumphs over evil and its guilt.
O, how much changed! and all by simple words
Spoken in love and kindness from the heart.
O, love and kindness! matchless power have ye
To mould the human heart; where'er ye dwell
There is no sorrow, but a living joy.
There is no man whom God hath placed on earth
That hath not some humanity within,
And is not moved with kindness joined with love.
The wildest savage, from whose firelit eye
Flashes the lightning passions of his soul,
Who stands, and feeling that he hath been wronged,
That he hath trusted and been basely used,
And that to him revenge were doubly sweet,
Dares all the world to combat and to death,--
Even he hath dwelling in his inmost heart
A chord that quick will vibrate to kind words.
Go unto such with kindness, not with wrath;
Let your eye look love, and 't will disarm him
Of all the evil passions with which he
Hath mailed his soul in terrible array.
Think not to tame the wild by brutal force.
As well attempt to stay devouring flames
By heaping fagots on the blazing pile.
Go, do man good, and the deep-hidden spark
Of true divinity concealed within
Will brighten up, and thou shalt see its glow,
And feel its cheering warmth. O, we lose much
By calling passion's aid to vanquish wrong.
 We should stand within love's holy temple,
And with persuasive kindness call men in,
Rather than, leaving it, use other means,
Unblest of God, and therefore weak and vain,
To force them on before us into bliss.
There is a luxury in doing good
Which none but by experience e'er can know.
He's blest who doeth good. Sleep comes to him
On wings of sweetest peace; and angels meet
In joyous convoys ever round his couch;
They watch and guard, protect and pray for him.
All mothers bend the knee, and children too
Clasp their fair hands and raise their undimmed eyes,
As if to pierce the shadowy veil that hangs
Between themselves and God-then pray that he
Will bless with Heaven's best gifts the friend of man.

A PLEA FOR THE FALLEN.

PITY her, pity her! Once she was fair,

Once breathed she sweetly the innocent's prayer;
Parents stood by in pride o'er their daughter;
Sin had not tempted, Vice had not caught her;
Hoping and trusting, believing all true,
Nothing but happiness rose to her view.
She, as were spoken words lovers might tell,
Listened, confided, consented, and fell!
Now she's forsaken; nursing in sorrow,
Hate for the night, despair for the morrow!
She'd have the world think she's happy and gay,--
A butterfly, roving wherever it may;
Sipping delight from each rose-bud and flower,
The charmed and the charmer of every hour.
She will not betray to the world all her grief;
She knows it is false, and will give no relief.
She knows that its friendship is heartless and cold;
That it loves but for gain, and pities for gold;
That when in their woe the fallen do cry,
It turns, it forsakes, and it leaves them to die!
But after the hour of the world's bright show,
When hence from her presence flatterers go;
When none are near to praise or caress her,
No one stands by with fondness to bless her;
Alone with her thoughts, in moments like this,
She thinks of her days of innocent bliss,
And she weeps!-yes, she weeps penitent tears
O'er the shame of a life and the sorrow of years:
She turns for a friend; yet, alas! none is there;
She sinks, once again, in the deepest despair!
Blame her not! O blame not, ye fathers who hold
 Daughters you value more dearly than gold!
But pity, O, pity her! take by the hand
One who, though fallen, yet nobly may stand.
Turn not away from her plea and her cries;
Pity and help, and the fallen may rise!
Crush not to earth the reed that is broken,
Bind up her wounds-let soft words be spoken;
Though she be low, though worldlings reject her,
Let not Humanity ever neglect her.

JOY BEYOND.

BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portal

Must yet be passed by every living mortal,

There gleams a light;

'T is not of earth. It wavers not; it gloweth
With a clear radiance which no changing knoweth,

Constant and bright.

We love to gaze at it; we love to cherish
The cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish,

And naught remain

Of all these temples,--things we now inherit,
Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit

Shall life retain.

And ever, through eternity unending,
It shall unto that changeless light be tending,

Till perfect day

Shall be its great reward; and all of mystery
That hath made up its earthly life, its history,

Be passed away!
O, joyous hour! O, day most good and glorious!
When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious,

Its conflict o'er;

When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages,
Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages,
Joy evermore!

THE SUMMER DAYS ARE COMING.

 THE summer days are coming,
The glorious summer hours,
When Nature decks her gorgeous robe
With sunbeams and with flowers;
And gathers all her choristers
In plumage bright and gay,
Till every vale is echoing with
Their joyous roundelay.
No more shall frosty winter
Hold in its cold embrace
The water; but the river
Shall join again the race;
And down the mountain's valley,
And o'er its rocky side,
The glistening streams shall rush and leap
In all their bounding pride.
There's pleasure in the winter,
When o'er the frozen snow
With faithful friend and noble steed
Right merrily we go!
But give to me the summer,
The pleasant summer days,
When blooming flowers and sparkling streams
Enliven all our ways.

THE MAN WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING.

SANSECRAT is one of that class of persons who think they know

everything. If anything occurs, and you seek to inform him, he will
interrupt you by saying that he knows it all,--that he was on the
spot when the occurrence happened, or that he had met a man who was
an eye-witness.

Such a person, though he be the possessor of much assurance, is

sadly deficient in manners; and no doubt the super-abundancy of the
former is caused by the great lack of the latter.

Such men as he will thrive; there is no mistake about it. This has
been called an age of invention and of humbug. Nothing is so
popular, or so much sought after, as that which cannot be explained,
and around which a mysterious shroud is closely woven.

My friend Arcanus came sweating and puffing into my room. I had just
finished my dinner, and was seated leisurely looking over a few
pages of manuscript, when he entered.
"News!" said he; and before I could hand him a chair he had told me
all about the last battle, and his tongue flew about with so much
rapidity, that a conflagration might have been produced by such
excessive friction, had not a rap at the door put a clog under the
wheels of his talkative locomotive, and stayed its progress, which
luckily gave me an opportunity to take his hat and request him to be
seated.

The door was opened, and who but Sansecrat stood before me.

"Have you heard the news?" was the first interrogatory of my friend
Arcanus, in reply to which Sansecrat said that he knew it all half
an hour previous,--was at the railroad station when the express
arrived, and was the first man to open the Southern papers.

In vain Arcanus told him that the information came by a private

letter. He averred, point blank, that it was no such thing; that he
had the papers in his pocket; and was about to exhibit them as proof
of what he had said, when he suddenly recollected that he had sold
them to an editor for one-and-sixpence.

Notwithstanding the proverb of "Man, know thyself," Sansecrat seems

to know everything but himself. Thousands of times has it been said
that man can see innumerable faults and foibles in his neighbors,
but none in himself. Very true; and man can see his own character,
just as he can see his own face in a mirror. His own associates
mirror forth his own character; and the faults, be they great or
small, that he sees in them, are but the true reflection of his own
errors. Yet, blind to this, and fondly imagining that he is the very
"pink of excellence," he flatters his own vain feeling with the
cherished idea that, while others have faults, he has none, and so
slumbers on in the sweet repose of ignorance.

Sansecrat imagines that he knows everything; that to teach him would

be like "carrying coals to Newcastle," or sending ship-loads of ice
to Greenland, or furnaces to the coast of Africa; yet he is as
ignorant as the greatest dunce, who, parrot-like, repeats that he
has heard, without having the least understanding of what he says.

Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Sansecrat will

prosper in the world; for, though destitute of those qualifications
which render their possessor worthy of success, he has an abundance
of brazen-facedness, with which he will work himself into the good
opinion of not a few, who look more closely upon exterior appearance
than they do upon inward worth, and judge their fellowmen more by
the good quality of their cloth than by the good quality of their
hearts, and set more value on a shining hat and an unpatched boot
than they do on a brilliant intellect and a noble soul.

PRIDE AND POVERTY.

I CANNOT brook the proud. I cannot love
The selfish man; he seems to have no heart;
And why he lives and moves upon this earth
Which God has made so fair, I cannot tell.
He has no soul but that within his purse,
And all his hopes are centred on its fate;
That lost, and all is lost.
I knew a man
Who had abundant riches. He was proud,--
Too oft the effect of riches when abused,--
His step was haughty, and his eye glanced at
The honest poor as base intruders on
The earth he trod and fondly called his own;
Unwelcome guests at Nature's banqueting.
Years passed away,--that youth became a man;
His beetled brow, his sullen countenance,
His eye that looked a fiery command,
Betrayed that his ambition was to rule.
He smiled not, save in scorn on humble men,
Whom he would have bow down and worship him.
Thus with his strength his pride did grow, until
He did become aristocrat indeed.
The humble beggar, whose loose rags scarce gave
Protection to him from the cold north wind,
He scarce would look upon, and vainly said,
As in his hand he held the ready coin,
"No mortal need be poor,--'t is his own fault
If such he be;--if he court poverty,
Let all its miseries be his to bear."
'T is many years since he the proud spake thus,
And men and things have greatly changed since then.
No more in wealth he rolls,--men's fortunes change.
I met a lonely hearse, slowly it passed
Toward the church-yard. 'T was unattended
Save by one old man, and he the sexton.
With spade beneath his arm he trudged along,
Whistling a homely tune, and stopping not.
He seemed to be in haste, for now and then
He'd urge to quicker pace his walking beast,
With the rough handle of his rusty spade.
Him I approached, and eagerly inquired
Whose body thus was borne so rudely to
Its final resting-place, the deep, dark grave.
"His name was Albro," was the prompt reply.
"Too proud to beg, we found him starved to death,
In a lone garret, which the rats and mice
Seemed greatly loth to have him occupy.
An' I, poor Billy Matterson, whom once
He deemed too poor and low to look upon,
Am come to bury him."
The sexton smiled,--
Then raised his rusty spade, cheered up his nag,
Whistled as he was wont, and jogged along.
Oft I have seen the poor man raise his hand
To wipe the eye when good men meet the grave,--
But Billy Matterson, he turned and smiled.
The truth flashed in an instant on my mind,
 Though sad, yet deep, unchanging truth to me.
'T was he, thus borne, who, in his younger days,
Blest with abundance, used it not aright.
He, who blamed the poor because they were such;
Behold his end!-too proud to beg, he died.
A sad example, teaching all to shun
The rock on which he shipwrecked,--warning take,
That they too fall not as he rashly fell.

WORDS THAT TOUCH THE INNER HEART.

WORDS, words! O give me these,

Words befitting what I feel,
That I may on every breeze
Waft to those whose riven steel
Fetters souls and shackles hands
Born to be as free as air,
Yet crushed and cramped by Slavery's bands,--
Words that have an influence there.
Words, words! give me to write
Such as touch the inner heart;
Not mere flitting forms of light,
That please the ear and then depart;
But burning words, that reach the soul,
That bring the shreds of error out,
That with resistless power do roll,
And put the hosts of Wrong to rout.
Let others tune their lyres, and sing
Illusive dreams of fancied joy;
But, my own harp,--its every string
Shall find in Truth enough employ.
It shall not breathe of Freedom here,
While millions clank the galling chain;
Or e'en one slave doth bow in fear,
Within our country's broad domain.
Go where the slave-gang trembling stands,
Herded with every stable stock,--
Woman with fetters on her hands,
And infants on the auction-block!
See, as she bends, how flow her tears!
Hark! hear her broken, trembling sighs;
Then hear the oaths, the threats, the jeers,
Of men who lash her as she cries!
O, men! who have the power to weave
In poesy's web deep, searching thought,
Be truth thy aim; henceforward leave
The lyre too much with fancy fraught!
Come up, and let the words you write
Be those which every chain would break,
And every sentence you indite
 Be pledged to Truth for Freedom's sake.

OUR HOME.

OUR home shall be

A cot on the mountain side,
Where the bright waters glide,
Sparkling and free;
Terrace and window o'er
Woodbine shall graceful soar;
Roses shall round the door
Blossom for thee.
There shall be joy
With no care to molest,--
Quiet, serene and blest;
And our employ
Work each other's pleasure;
Boundless be the treasure;
Without weight or measure,
Free from alloy.
Our home shall be
Where the first ray of light
Over the mountain height,
Stream, rock and tree,
Joy to our cot shall bring,
While brake and bower shall ring
With notes the birds shall sing,
Loved one, for thee.

SPECULATION AND ITS CONSEQUENCE.

SPECULATION is business in a high fever. Its termination is

generally very decided, whether favorable or otherwise, and the
effect of that termination upon the individual most intimately
connected with it in most cases unhealthy.

It was a truth long before the wise man wrote it, that making haste
to be rich is an evil; and it always will be a truth that the
natural, unforced course of human events is the only sure, the only
rational one.
The desire to be rich, to be pointed out as wealthy, is a very
foolish one, unless it be coupled with a desire to do good. This is
somewhat paradoxical; for the gratification of the last most
certainly repels that of the first, inasmuch as he who distributes
his gains cannot accumulate to any great extent.

Wealth is looked at from the wrong stand-point. It is too often

considered the end, instead of the means to an end; and there never
was a greater delusion in the human mind than that of supposing that
riches confer happiness. In ninety-nine cases out of every hundred
the opposite is the result. Care often bears heavily on the rich
man's brow, and the insatiate spirit asks again and again for more,
and will not be silenced. And this feeling will predominate in the
human mind until man becomes better acquainted with his own true
nature, and inclines to minister to higher and more ennobling
aspirations.

In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a few
years since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name of
Robert Short. Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker. With a
steady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined,
he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means
unenviable style. He did not covet the favors and caresses of the
world. He looked upon all,--the rich, the poor, the prince, the
beggar,--alike, as his brethren. He believed that all stood upon one
platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be
equally interested in each other's welfare. With this belief, and
with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his
course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of
many friends, and not strange that many should seek his
acquaintance. There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men
to associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good
character, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in their
own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed "the
common people." It was pleasant, of a winter's evening, to enter the
humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged
fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the
contentment and peace that prevailed within. Bob, seated at his
bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased,
would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task. Six or
perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around,
seated upon that article most convenient,--whether a stool or a pile
of leather, it mattered not,--relating some tale of the Revolution,
or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected
Mr. Short. 'T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that
our story commences. Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a
fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot
cylinder. Squire Smith was what some would term a "man of
consequence,"-at least, he thought so. Be it known that this squire
was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero. He
came in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that
which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short,
might be a great man.

"I tell you what," said he, with an air of importance, "I tell you
what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense and
everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old
bench. It will be your ruin; 'pend upon it, it will be your ruin."
"How so?" eagerly inquired Mr. Short.

"Why," replied the squire, "it's no use for me to go into

particulars. But why do you not associate with more respectable and
fashionable company?"

"Is not the present company respectable?" resumed Mr. Short; "and as
for the fashion, I follow my own."

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking his
head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer.

"Perhaps your ideas of respectability," continued the squire, "are

not in accordance with mine."

"Ay, ay; true, true," interrupted Sandy, with a shrug of the

shoulder.

Mr. Smith continued his remarks, appearing not to notice the

interruption. "Perhaps," said he, "one may be as honest as the days
are long; but, sir, he is far from being respectable, in my humble
opinion, if he is not genteel,--and certainly if he is not
fashionably dressed he is not. He does not think enough of himself;
that's it, my dear Mr. Short, he does not think enough of himself."

"But he is honest," replied Mr. Short. "Supposing he does not dress

so fashionably as you would wish, would you condemn him for the cut
of his coat, or the quality of his cloth? Perhaps his means are not
very extensive, and will not admit of a very expensive outlay,
merely for show. It is much better, my dear sir, to be clothed in
rags and out of debt, than to be attired in the most costly apparel,
and that not paid for. Sir, to hold up your head and say you owe no
man, is to be free, free in the truest sense of the word."

"Ah, I must be on the move," interrupted the squire, at the same

time looking at his "gold lever." And off he started.

Squire Smith had said enough for that night; to have said more would
have injured his plan. Mr. Green and Sandy shook hands with their
friend Robert, and, it being late, they bade him "good-by," and
parted. Our hero was now left alone. Snuffing the candle, that had
well-nigh burnt to the socket, he placed more fuel upon the fire,
and, resting his hands upon his knees and his head upon his hands,
he began to think over the sayings of his friend the squire.

Robert Short saw nothing of the squire for many days after the event
just described transpired. One day, as he began his work, the door
was suddenly thrown open, and the long absent but not forgotten
squire rushed in, shouting "Speculation! speculation!" Mr. Short
threw aside his last, and listened with feelings of astonishment to
the eloquent words that fell from the lips of his unexpected
visitor. "Gull, the broker," continued the squire, "has just offered
me a great bargain. I have come to make a proposition which is, that
you and I accept his offer, and make our fortunes."

"Fortunes!" exclaimed the son of Crispin; "speculate in what?"

"In eastern land," was the reply.

Bob Short's countenance assumed a desponding appearance; he had
heard of many losses caused by venturing in these speculations, and
had some doubts as to his success, should he accept. Then, again, he
had heard of those who had been fortunate, and he inquired the
conditions of sale.

"Why," replied Mr. Smith, Esq., "old Varnum Gull has three thousand
acres of good land, upon which are, as he assures me, some beautiful
watering places. It is worth five dollars an acre; he offers it to
me for one, and a grand chance it is; the terms are cash."

"Are you certain as to the quality of the land?" inquired Mr. Short.

"Perfectly certain," was the reply. "I would not advise you wrong
for the world; but I now think it best to form a sort of
co-partnership, and purchase the land. There is no doubt but that we
can dispose of it at a great advantage. Will you not agree to my
proposals, and accept?"

"I will," answered Mr. Short. "But how can I obtain fifteen hundred
dollars? I have but a snug thousand."

"O, don't trouble yourself about that," replied the delighted

squire. "I will loan you the balance at once. You can return it at
some convenient time. What say you will you accompany me to the
broker's, and inform him of the agreement?"

Mr. Short, after a moment's delay, arose, and, laying aside his
leather apron, took the squire by the arm, and both sallied forth in
search of the office of Varnum Gull. After wending their way through
short streets and long lanes, narrow avenues and wide alleys, they
came to a small gate, upon which was fastened a small tin sign with
the following inscription: "V. Gull, broker, up the yard, round the
corner, up two pair of stairs." The squire and Mr. Short followed
the directions laid down, and, having gone up the yard and turned
round the corner, they found themselves at the foot of the stairs.
They stood for a moment silent, and were about to ascend, when a
voice from above attracted their attention.

"'Ollo, Squire, 'ere's the box; walk right up 'ere; only look out,
there's an 'ole in the stairs."

Our hero looked above, and perceived a man with green spectacles
drawing his head in.

"We will go up," said the squire, "and look out for the hole; but,
as the stairway is rather dark, we shall not see much; therefore we
shall be obliged to feel our way."

They ascended, and escaped without injury. A little short man met
them at the door, holding in his hand a paper bearing some
resemblance to a map.

"Really, Mr. Smith, I feared you would lose that 'ere bargain I
expatiated on. I 'ave received many good offers, but 'ave reserved
it for you. Your friend, ha?" he continued, at the same time
striking Mr. Short in no gentle manner upon the shoulder.

"Not friend Hay, but friend Short," replied the squire.

"Hall the same, only an error in the spelling," resumed the broker.
"Good-morning, Mr. Short; s'pose you 'ave become 'quainted with the
rare chance I've offered, an't ye? and wish to accept it, don't ye?
and can pay for it, can't ye? Such an opportunity is seldom met
with, by which to make one's fortune."

"Well," replied Mr. Short, improving the time Mr. Gull stopped to
breathe, "well, I had some idea of so doing." "Hidea!" quickly
responded the broker; "why will you 'esitate? read that!" and he
handed a paper to Mr. Short which paper he kept for reference, and
pointed out to him an article which read as follows:

"It is astonishing what enormous profits are at present realized by

traders in Eastern Land. One of our neighbors purchased a thousand
acres, at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, of Gull, our
enterprising broker, and sold it yesterday for the round sum of
three thousand dollars, receiving thereby the enormous profit of
nineteen hundred and seventy-five dollars. He was a poor man, but by
this lucky movement has become rich."

As soon as our hero had read this cheering intelligence, he became

elated with the prospect, and soon came to a final agreement with
the squire to accept the offer. Papers were drawn up, signed by
each, and a check given to the broker, for which was returned a deed
for the land. They then left the office, Mr. Gull politely bidding
them good-by, with a caution to look out for the "'ole." They did
look out for the hole, but it might have been that the cunning
broker referred to a hole of more consequence than that in the
stairs. The squire on that day invited Mr. Short to his house to
dine. This, however, he did not accept, but returned to his shop.
One week had passed away, during which time the squire was often at
the shop of Bob Short, but no customer had yet applied for the land.
It was near dusk on the eighth day succeeding the purchase, as they
were talking over the best way by which to dispose of it, when a
short man entered, wrapped up in a large cloak, and a large bushy
fur cap upon his head.

"I understand," said he, "you have a few acres of land you wish to
dispose of."

"Exactly so," answered the squire.

"And how much do you charge per acre?" inquired the stranger.

"That depends upon the number you wish. Do you wish to purchase
all?"

"That depends upon the price charged," was the reply.

"If you wish all," continued Mr. Smith, "we will sell for four
dollars an acre. That is dog cheap, and a great sacrifice."

"Well," resumed the stranger, "I will take it on conditions;

namely, I will pay you your price, and if the land answers my
purpose I will keep it,--if not, you will return me the amount of
money I pay."

"That is rather a hard bargain. I know it to be good land," answered

the squire.

"Then," continued the stranger, "if you know it to be good,

certainly there can be no danger in disposing of it on the
conditions I have named."

After a few moments' conversation with Mr. Short, they agreed to

sell to the stranger. Papers were immediately drawn up and signed by
Messrs. Smith and Short, agreeing to return the money provided the
land did not give satisfaction. The sum of twelve thousand dollars
was paid in cash to the signers, and the papers given into the hands
of the purchaser, who then left. Robert Short on that night did
really feel rich. This was six thousand dollars apiece; after Mr.
Short had paid the fifteen hundred borrowed, he had forty-five
hundred left. Both were equally certain that the land would give
entire satisfaction, and acted according to this belief. With a
light heart he went home, and communicated the joyful intelligence
to his wife, who had from the first been opposed to the trade. He
did not, however, inform her of the terms on which he had sold. In a
few days he had disposed of his shop and tools to one of his former
workmen. Many were surprised when the sign of "Robert Short" was
taken from its long resting-place over the door. Mr. Short now began
to think the house in which he had for many years resided was not
quite good enough, and therefore engaged a larger and more expensive
one. He ordered new furniture, purchased a carriage and horses, and
had his new house fitted out under the direction of his friend, the
squire. He rented a large store; bought large quantities of shoes
and leather, partly on credit. His business at first prospered, but
in a short time became quite dull; his former customers left, and
all business seemed at a stand-still. In the mean time, the broker
had left town, having sold out his office to a young man. Matters
stood thus, when, early in the morning on a pleasant day in June, as
the squire and Mr. Short were seated in the counting-room of the
latter, a man dressed in a light summer dress entered.

"Good-morning," said the visitor. "Business is quite lively, I

suppose?"

"O, it's moderate, nothing extra," replied Mr. Short; "won't you be
seated?"

The stranger seated himself.

"Mr. Robert Short is your name, is it not?" he inquired.

"It is, sir."

"Did I not make a bargain with you about some eastern land, a few
months since?"

"Yes, some person did;" and Mr. Short immediately recognized him as
the purchaser. The new comer then took from his pocket the paper of
agreement, and presented it for the inspection of the two gentlemen.

"Are you not satisfied with your bargain?" inquired Mr. Smith.

"Not exactly," replied the stranger, laughing.

"Why, what fault is there in it?"

"Well," replied the stranger, "I suppose a report of my examination
will be acceptable."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Short.

"Then I can give it in a few words. It is a good watering place,

being WHOLLY COVERED WITH WATER; and is of no value unless it could
be drained, and that, I think, is impossible."

The squire was astonished; Mr. Short knew not what to

"What is the name of the water bought for land?" inquired Squire
Smith.

"The location of it is in a large pond of water, twelve miles in

length, and about six in width, and is known in those parts by the
name of the 'Big Pond.' But," continued the stranger, "I must be
gone; please return me my money, according to agreement."

After some talk, the stranger agreed to call the next day. The next
day came, and with it came the stranger. Mr. Short had tried in vain
to obtain the requisite sum, and was obliged to request him to call
the next day. He came the next day, and the next, and the next, but
received no money; and he was at length obliged to attach the
property of the squire, as also that of Mr. Short. His other
creditors also came in with their bills. All the stock of Mr. Short
was sold at auction, and he was a poor man. He obtained a small
house, that would not compare with the one he had lived in in former
years. He had no money of his own, and was still deeply in debt. He
was obliged to work at such jobs as came along, but at length
obtained steady employment. The squire, who was the prime cause of
all his trouble, sailed for a foreign port, leaving all his bills
unpaid, In a short time Mr. Short obtained a sufficient sum to buy
back his old shop, in which to this day he has steadily worked, with
a vivid remembrance of the consequence of speculation.

RETROSPECTION.

HE had drank deep and long from out

The bacchanalian's bowl;
Had felt its poisonous arrows pierce
The recess of his soul;
And now his footsteps turned to where
His childhood's days were cast,
And sat him 'neath an old oak tree
To muse upon the past.
Beneath its shade he oft had sat
In days when he was young;
Ere sorrow, like that old oak tree,
 Its own deep shadows flung;
Beneath that tree his school-mates met,
There joined in festive mirth,
And not a place seemed half so dear
To him, upon the earth.
The sun had passed the horizon,
Yet left a golden light
Along a cloudless sky to mark
A pathway for the night;
The moon was rising silently
To reign a queen on high,
To marshal all the starry host,
In heaven's blue canopy.
In sight the schoolhouse stood, to which
In youth he had been led
By one who now rests quietly
Upon earth's silent bed.
And near it stood the church whose aisles
His youthful feet had trod;
Where his young mind first treasured in
The promises of God.
There troops of happy children ran
With gayety along;
'T was agony for him to hear
Their laughter and their song.
For thoughts of youthful days came up
And crowded on his brain,
Till, crushed with woe unutterable,
It sank beneath its pain.
Pain! not such as sickness brings,
For that can be allayed,
But pain from which a mortal shrinks
Heart-stricken and dismayed:
The body crushed beneath its woe
May some deliverance find,
But who on earth hath power to heal
The agony of mind?
O Memory! it long had slept;
But now it woke to power,
And brought before him all the past,
From childhood's earliest hour.
He saw himself in school-boy prime;
Then youth, its pleasures, cares,
Came up before him, and he saw
How cunningly the snares
Were set to catch him as he ran
In thoughtless haste along,
To charm him with deceitful smiles,
And with its siren song:
He saw a seeming friendly hand
Hold out the glittering wine,
Without a thought that deep within
A serpent's form did twine.
Then manhood came; then he did love,
And with a worthy pride
He led a cherished being to
The altar as his bride;
And mid the gay festivity
Passed round the flowing wine,
And friends drank, in the sparkling cup,
A health to thee and thine.
A health! O, as the past came up,
The wanderer's heart was stirred
And as a madman he poured forth
Deep curses on that word.
For well he knew that "health" had been
The poison of his life;
Had made the portion of his soul
With countless sorrows rife.
Six years passed by-a change had come,
And what a change was that!
No more the comrades of his youth
With him as comrades sat.
Duties neglected, friends despised,
Himself with naught to do,
A mother dead with anguish, and
A wife heart-broken too.
Another year-and she whom he
Had promised to protect
Died in the midst of poverty,
A victim of neglect.
But ere she died she bade him kneel
Beside herself in prayer,
And prayed to God that he would look
In pity on them there:
And bless her husband, whom she loved,
And all the past forgive,
And cause him, ere she died, begin
A better life to live.
She ceased to speak,--the husband rose,
And, penitent, did say,
While tears of deep contrition flowed,
"I'll dash the bowl away!"
A smile passed o'er the wife's pale face,
She grasped his trembling hand,
Gave it one pressure, then her soul
Passed to a better land.
He, bent to kiss her pale cold lips,
But they returned it not;
And then he felt the loneliness
And sorrow of his lot.
It seemed as though his life had fled;
That all he called his own,
When her pure spirit took its flight,
Had with that spirit flown.
She had been all in all to him,
And deep his heart was riven
With anguish, as he thought what woe
He her kind heart had given.
But all was passed; she lay in death,
The last word had been said,
The soul had left its prison-house,
And up to heaven had fled;
But 't was a joy for him to know
She smiled on him in love,
And hope did whisper in his heart,
"She'll guard thee from above."
He sat beneath that old oak tree,
 And children gathered round,
And wondered why he wept, and asked
What sorrow he had found.
Then told he them this sad, sad tale,
Which I have told to you;
They asked no more why he did weep,
For they his sorrow knew.
And soon their tears began to fall,
And men came gathering round,
Till quite a goodly company
Beneath that tree was found.
The wanderer told his story o'er,
Unvarnished, true and plain;
And on that night three-score of men
Did pledge them to abstain.

NATURE'S FAIR DAUGHTER, BEAUTIFUL WATER.

NATURE'S fair daughter,

Beautiful water!
O, hail it with joy, with echoes of mirth,
Wherever it sparkles or ripples on earth.
Down from the mountain,
Up from the fountain,
Ever it cometh, bright, sparkling and clear,
From the Creator, our pathway to cheer.
Nobly appearing,
O'er cliffs careering,
Pouring impetuously on to the sea,
Chanting, unceasing, the song of the free.
See how it flashes
As onward it dashes
Over the pebbly bed of the brook,
Singing in every sequestered nook.
Now gently falling,
As if 't were calling
Spirits of beauty from forest and dell
To welcome it on to grotto and cell.
Beauteous and bright
Gleams it in light,
Then silently flows beneath the deep glade,
Emblem of life in its sunshine and shade.
Beautiful water!
Nature's fair daughter!
Where'er it sparkles or ripples on earth,
Hail it with joy and with echoes of mirth.
THE TEST OF FRIENDSHIP.

BRIGHTEST shine the stars above

When the night is darkest round us;
Those the friends we dearest love
Who were near when sorrow bound us.
When no clouds o'ercast our sky,
When no evil doth attend us,
Then will many gather nigh,
Ever ready to befriend us.
But when darkness shades our path,
When misfortune hath its hour,
When we lie beneath its wrath,
Some will leave us to its power.
Often have we seen at night,
When the clouds have gathered o'er us,
One lone star send forth its light,
Marking out the path before us.
Like that star some friendly eye
Will beam on us in our sorrow;
And, though clouded be our sky,
We know there'll be a better morrow.
We know that all will not depart,
That some will, gather round to cheer us:
Know we, in our inmost heart,
Tried and faithful friends are near us.
Brother, those who do not go
May be deem�d friends forever;
Love them, trust them, have them know
Nothing can your friendship sever.

WEEP NOT.

WEEP not, mother,

For another
Tie that bound thyself to earth
Now is sundered,
And is numbered
With those of a heavenly birth.
She hath left thee.
God bereft thee
Of thy dearest earthly friend;
Yet thou'lt meet her,
Thou wilt greet her
 Where reunions have no end
Her life's true sun
Its course did run
From morn unto meridian day;
And now at eve
It takes its leave,
Calmly passing hence away.
Watch the spirit-
'T will inherit
Bliss which mortal cannot tell;
From another
World, my mother,
Angels whisper, "All is well."
'Way with sadness!
There is gladness
In a gathered spirit throng;
She, ascended,
Trials ended,
Joins their ranks and chants their song.
Weep not, mother,
For another
Tie doth bind thyself above;
Doubts are vanished,
Sorrows banished,
She is happy whom you love.

RICH AND POOR.

"GOOD-BY, Ray, good-by," said George Greenville; and the stage wound
its way slowly up a steep ascent, and was soon lost to view.

"Well, well, he has gone. Glad of it, heartily glad of it! When will
all these paupers be gone?" said the father of George, as he entered
the richly-furnished parlor, and seated himself beside an open
window.

"Why so glad?" inquired George, who listened with feelings of regret

to the remark.

"Why?" resumed the owner of a thousand acres; "ask me no questions;

I am glad,--that's enough. You well know my mind on the subject."

"Father, act not thus. Is this a suitable way to requite his

kindness?"

"Kindness!" interrupted the old man; "say not 't was kindness that
prompted him to do me a favor; rather say 't was his duty,--and of
you should I not expect better things? Did I allow you to visit
Lemont but to become acquainted with such a poverty-stricken,
pauper-bred youth as Ray Bland?"
Saying this, he arose and left the room.

George seated himself in the chair vacated by his father. He looked

across the verdant fields, and mused upon his passionate remarks.
"Well," thought he, "I was right; shall I allow the god of Mammon to
bind me down? Of what use are riches, unless, whilst we enjoy, we
can with them relieve the wants and administer to the necessities of
our fellow-men? Shall we hoard them up, or shall we not rather give
with a free hand and a willing heart to those who have felt
misfortune's scourging rod,--who are crushed, oppressed and trampled
upon, by not a few of their more wealthy neighbors?" In such a train
of thought he indulged himself till the hour of dinner arrived.

George Greenville had formed an acquaintance with Ray Bland whilst

on a visit to a neighboring town. He was a young man, possessing
those fine qualities of mind that constitute the true gentleman. His
countenance beamed with intelligence, and his sparkling eye betrayed
vivacity of mind, the possession of which was a sure passport to the
best of society. When the time came that George was to return home
to the companionship of his friends, they found that ties of
friendship bound them which could not be easily severed, and Ray
accepted the invitation of George Greenville to accompany him, and
spend a short time at the house of his father. The week had passed
away in a pleasant manner. The hour of parting had come and gone;
The farewell had been taken, the "good-by" had been repeated, when
the conversation above mentioned passed between him and his father.

The family and connections of George were rich; those of Ray were
poor. The former lived at ease in the midst of pleasures, and
surrounded by all the comforts and conveniences of life; the latter
encountered the rough waves of adversity, and was obliged to labor
with assiduity, to sustain an equal footing with his neighbors. Thus
were the two friends situated; and old Theodore Greenville scorned
the idea of having his son associate with a pauper, as he termed all
those who were not the possessors of a certain amount of
money,--without which, in his opinion, none were worthy to associate
with the rich.

"Ray is a person not so much to be hated and sneered at as you would

suppose," said George, breaking the silence, and addressing his
father at the dinner-table.

"George, I have set my heart against him," was the reply.

"Then," continued the first speaker, "I suppose you are not open to
conviction. If I can prove him worthy of your esteem and confidence,
will you believe?"

"That cannot be done, perhaps. You may think him to be a worthy

young man; but I discard the old saying that poverty is no disgrace!
I say that it is; and one that can, if its victim choose, be washed
away. Ray Bland is a pauper, that's my only charge against him; and
all the thundering eloquence of a Cicero will not alter my opinion,
or move me an iota from the stand I have taken,--which is, now and
ever, to reject the company of paupers. It is my request that you do
the same."

Amelia, the sister of George, now joined in the conversation,

inquiring of her father whether it was against his will for her to
associate with the poor.

"Precisely so," was the brief reply; and the conversation ended. The
father left the house for a short walk, as was his custom, whilst
George and Amelia retired to the parlor, and conversed, for a long
time, upon the rash and unjust decision of their parent. The mutual
attachment that existed between George and Ray was not looked upon
with indifference by the sister of the former; and she determined
upon using all the means in her power to bring the latter into the
good will of her father; she resolved, like a noble girl, to cherish
a social and friendly feeling toward the friend of her brother. He
who knows the warmth of a sister's affection can imagine with what
constancy she adhered to this determination. The command of her
father not to associate with the poor only served to strengthen her
resolution, for she knew with what obstacles her brother would have
to contend. She had a kind heart, that would not allow a
fellow-being to want, so long as she had, or could obtain, the means
to relieve him.

"Do you think father was in earnest in what he said?" inquired

Amelia.

"I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," replied George; "but what
led you to ask such a question?"

"Because, you know, he often speaks ironically; and, as he left the

dinner-room with mother, he smiled, and said something about the
poor, and a trick he was about to play."

"True, Amelia," replied George, "he is to play a trick; but it

concerns not us. You know poor old Smith is one of father's tenants.
Smith has been sick, and has not been able to procure funds with
which to pay his rent, and father intends to engage a person to take
out all the doors and windows of the house. He hopes Smith will thus
be forced to leave. I have been thinking whether we cannot devise
some plan to prevent the poor man from being turned thus abruptly
from the house."

"I am sure we can," replied Amelia; "yet I had much rather have a
trick played upon us than upon poor Smith. Can you not propose some
way by which we can prevent father from carrying out his
intentions?"

"I will give you the money," replied George, "if you will convey it
to Mr. Smith, so that he will be enabled to pay his rent. Recollect
it must be carried in the night, and this night, as father expects
to commence his operations to-morrow or next day. You know that I
cannot go, as my time will be fully occupied in attending upon some
important business at home." It was not necessary to make this offer
more than once. The heart of Amelia bounded with joy, as she
anticipated being the bearer of the money to Smith; and, shortly
after dark, being provided with it, she proceeded to his house.

It was a dark night. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and no
twinkling star shone to guide her on her errand of mercy. As she
drew near the lonely dwelling of Paul Smith, she perceived no light.
She feared that he might be absent. Stealthily along she crept, and,
listening at the door, heard the voice of prayer, imploring aid and
support during the trials of life, that relief might soon be sent.
Amelia silently opened the door, and placed the money on a table,
accompanied with a note to Smith, requesting him not to disclose the
manner in which he received it, and, as silently withdrawing, wended
her way home. As she entered the parlor, she found her father and
brother engaged in earnest conversation,--so earnest that she was not
at first noticed.

"Confound my tenants!" said Mr. Greenville. "There's old Paul Smith;

if to-morrow's sun does not witness him bringing my just dues, he
shall leave,--yes, George, he shall leave! I am no more to be trifled
with and perplexed by his trivial excuses. All my tenants who do not
pay shall toe the same mark. I'll make them walk up, fodder or no
fodder! Ha, ha, ha! old Smith shall know that I have some principle
left, if I have passed my sixtieth year-that he shall! Slipnoose,
the lawyer, shall have one job."

"You are always visiting your friends, George. It seems as though

all are your friends. Yet I don't blame you, for friends are very
happy appendages to one's character. I pity the man who lives a
friendless life. That's the reason I have been such a friend to
Smith,--but no longer!" As he said this the wealthy landlord left the
room.

Amelia related to her brother an account of her adventure, and both

were thankful that they been instrumental in relieving the wants of
their poor neighbors. The next morning, seated at the table, Mr.
Greenville began again to express his opinion respecting poor people
in general, and Paul Smith in particular, when a loud rap at the
door somewhat startled him. In a few moments a servant entered, and
gave information that a person was at the door who wished to see Mr.
Greenville. Arriving there, the landlord encountered his tenant,
Smith, who immediately told him that by some kind providence he was
enabled to pay him his due, and hoped that in future he should be
prompt in his payments.

The landlord took the money, and, looking it over, handed him a
receipt for the same, and returned to the breakfast-table. Nothing
was said about Smith until Mr. Greenville, as he left the room,
remarked "that he did not know but that Smith meant well enough."

Nearly a month had elapsed and nothing had been heard of Ray Bland,
when, on a certain morning, Mr. Greenville came in and handed George
a letter. Upon opening it, George found it to be written by his
friend Ray, informing him of his safe arrival home, thanking him for
the kind attention he received during his visit, and expressing
great pleasure in soon having another opportunity to visit him.
George communicated this intelligence to Amelia, and they determined
upon using their united efforts in endeavoring to bring over the
kind feelings of their father to their young, but poor, friend.

"It's no use for you to talk," said old Mr. Greenville, after a long
conversation with the two; "the die is cast. I have resolved, and
all the arguments you can bring forward will not cause me to break
my resolution."

"Well," remarked George, "perhaps the day will come when you will
deeply regret forming such a resolution. Perhaps the sunshine of
prosperity will not always illumine our path."
"Be that as it may," interrupted Mr. Greenville, "we will not allow
our imagination to wander forth into the mystical regions of the
future, or picture to ourselves scenes of wretchedness, if such
await us. Flatter me not with the good intentions of Ray Bland."

Months passed away, and the children of the proud Mr. Greenville
forbore to mention in the presence of their father aught concerning
their friend Ray Bland, or to excite the anger of the old gentleman
by combating his prejudices against the poor.

Months passed away, and again Ray Bland found himself beneath the
roof of his former friend. He was received by George and Amelia with
the cordiality that had ever marked his intercourse with them; but
the father was, if possible, more morose and sullen than usual.

Ray had several times made the attempt to know the cause of this
coldness, but as often as he alluded to it George would invariably
turn the subject; and he forbore to question further, content with
the happiness which he enjoyed in the society of those he held so
dear.

It was the evening of a fine day in the early spring, that the three
friends sat together. It was the last evening of his visit, and Ray
expected not to return for a long time. Alone in his study, the
father vented his indignation against paupers, which respect for his
daughter's feelings only prevented in the presence of their visitor.
He opened the casement. Clouds were gathering in the sky, and now
and then a faint flash of lightning illumined the increasing
darkness; and the far-off voice of the storm was audible from the
distance, each moment increasing in strength and violence. Soon the
storm was upon them.

The old gentleman retired to his apartment. Each moment the storm
increased in violence, and in vain did he strive to close his eyes
in sleep.

At length a flash more vivid, accompanied by a peal of thunder more

terrific than any that had preceded it, startled the inmates of the
mansion. The wind howled terribly, and the old trees groaned and
creaked about the dwelling with a fearful and terrific sound.

Within all was still and quiet. No word was spoken, for it was a
fearful night, and in fear and dread they suspended their
conversation.

Amelia first broke the silence. "Something must be burning,"

exclaimed she. In an instant the cry of fire was heard. All started
up and rushed to the door; and there, indeed, they were witnesses of
a sight which might well appall. The whole upper part of the house
was in flames. Instantly the cause flashed upon them. The house had
been struck and set on fire by lightning. "My father! O, my father!"
shrieked Amelia, and fell fainting to the floor. Quick as the word
came the thought of Ray Bland that the aged Mr. Greenville might be
in danger; and ere George Greenville had borne his sister to a place
of safety, through flame and smoke had Ray Bland reached the chamber
which he knew the old gentleman occupied. It was locked. One blow of
his foot, with all the force he could muster, and locks and bolts
gave way. The room was nearly enveloped in flames, the curtains of
the window and bed had been consumed, and now the flames had seized
the wood-work and burned with great fury. Upon the floor, prostrate
as if dead, lay the proud man, who scorned and detested the poor,
and who had boasted of being beyond the reach of adversity. To lift
him in his arms and bear him to the street was the work of an
instant. He had only been stunned, and the drenching rain through
which he was carried soon revived him. Ray bore him to the house of
poor Smith, the nearest to his own; and there, with feelings of
anguish which cannot be described, surrounded by his children and
neighbors, the old man learned a lesson which his whole previous
life had not taught, of the dependence which every member of society
has upon the whole. While his riches were taking wings to fly away
even before his own eyes, he felt how foolish and wicked was his
past conduct; and ever after the poor found no warmer friend or more
liberal hand than that of old George Greenville.

In the course of a few months a new and spacious building was

erected upon the site of the one destroyed; and the neighbors say
that the pretty cottage which is being built just over the way is to
be the future residence of Ray Bland and the fair Amelia, whose
aristocratic father now knows no distinction, save in merit, between
the rich and poor.

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck,

While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past,
Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear:
For in imagination he could see
Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport
Upon a river's bank, quite near his home,
Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress
Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase,
Upon some mossy stone he sat him down;
Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade
Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow;
Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps,
Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.
And since that day what scenes had he passed through,
What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!
Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,
On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast,
Or the more fertile climes of Italy;
There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,
And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;
'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,
'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,
Forth he had wandered.
Mark the semblance now!
For much there is between his childish course
 Upon the river's bank and his later
Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now,
His inclination led to a pursuit
More bold, adventurous, and far more grand.
Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran
In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days;
And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours
Are but an index of our future life,
And life an index of that yet to come.
As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape
Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down
The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe
Those recollections with the dew of Thought!
Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!
It is not weakness when Affection's fount
O'erflows its borders, and to man displays
The feelings that its powers cannot conceal.
It is not weakness when our feeble words
Find utterance only in our flowing tears.
Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh,
Yet know no joy like that which often flows
In silent tears.
As nearer drew the seaman to his home,
As in the distance first he saw the spot
Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent,
His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,
And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves,
And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,
To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly
Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.

THE POOR OF EARTH.

I'VE often wondered, as I've sat

Within mine own loved home,
And thought of those, my fellow-men,
Who houseless, homeless, roam;
That one upon this earth is found
Whose heart good promptings smother;
And will not share his wealth with him
Who is his poorer brother!
I've often wondered, as I've walked
Amid life's busy throng,
And seen my fellows who have been
By Fortune helped along,
That they who bask in its bright rays
No tear of pity shed
On him who doth no "fortune" seek,
But asks a crust of bread!
I've seen the gilded temple raised,
 The aspirant of fame
Ascend the altar's sacred steps,
To preach a Saviour's name,
And wondered, as I stood and gazed
At those rich-cushioned pews,
Where he who bears the poor man's fate
Might hear Salvation's news.
I've walked within the church-yard's walls,
With holy dread and fear,
And on its marble tablets read
"None but the rich lie here."
I've wandered till I came upon
A heap of moss-grown stones,
And some one whispered in mine ear,
"Here rest the poor man's bones."
My spirit wandered on, until
It left the scenes of earth;
Until I stood with those who'd passed
Through death, the second birth.
And I inquired, with holy awe,
"Who are they within this fold,
Who seem to be Heaven's favorite,
And wear those crowns of gold?"
Then a being came unto me,
One of angelic birth,
And in most heavenly accents said,
"Those were the poor of earth."
Then from my dream I woke, but
Will ne'er forget its worth;
For ever since that vision
I have loved "the poor of earth."
And when I see them toiling on
To earn their daily bread,
And dire oppression crush them down,
Till every joy hath fled,--
I mind me of that better world,
And of that heavenly fold,
Where every crown of thorns gives place
Unto a crown of gold.

IF I DON'T, OTHERS WILL.

"IF I don't make it, others will;

So I'll keep up my death-drugged still.
Come, Zip, my boy, pile on the wood,
And make it blaze as blaze it should;
For I do heartily love to see
The flames dance round it merrily!
"Hogsheads, you want?-well, order them made;
The maker will take his pay in trade.
If, at the first, he will not consent,
Treat him with wine till his wits are spent;
Then, when his reason is gone, you know
Whate'er we want from his hands will flow!
"Ah, what do you say?-'that won't be fair'?
You're conscientious, I do declare!
I thought so once, when I was a boy,
But since I have been in this employ
I've practised it, and many a trick,
By the advice of my friend, Old Nick.
I thought 't was wrong till he hushed my fears
With derisive looks, and taunts, and jeers,
And solemnly said to me, 'My Bill,
If you don't do it, some others will!'
"If I don't sell it, some others will;
So bottles, and pitchers, and mugs I'll fill.
When trembling child, who is sent, shall come,
Shivering with cold, and ask for rum
(Yet fearing to raise its wet eyes up),
I'll measure it out in its broken cup!
"Ah! what do you say?-'the child wants bread'?
Well, 't is n't my duty to see it fed;
If the parents will send to me to buy,
Do you think I'd let the chance go by
To get me gain? O, I'm no such fool;
That is not taught in the world's wide school!
"When the old man comes with nervous gait,
Loving, yet cursing his hapless fate,
Though children and wife and friends may meet,
And me with tears and with sighs entreat
Not to sell him that which will be his death,
I'll hear what the man with money saith;
If he asks for rum and shows the gold,
I'll deal it forth, and it shall be sold!
"Ah! do you say, 'I should heed the cries
Of weeping friends that around me rise'?
May be you think so; I tell you what,--
I've a rule which proves that I should not;
For, know you, though the poison kill,
If I don't sell it, some others will!"
A strange fatality came on all men,
Who met upon a mountain's rocky side;
They had been sane and happy until then,
But then on earth they wished not to abide.
The sun shone brightly, but it had no charm;
The soft winds blew, but them did not elate;
They seemed to think all joined to do them harm,
And urge them onward to a dreadful fate.
I did say "all men," yet there were a few
Who kept their reason well,--yet, weak, what could they do?
The men rushed onward to the jagged rocks,
Then plunged like madmen in their madness o'er;
From peak to peak they scared the feathered flocks,
And far below lay weltering in their gore.
The sane men wondered, trembled, and they strove
To stay the furies; but they could not do it.
Whate'er they did, however fenced the drove,
The men would spring the bounds or else break through it,
And o'er the frightful precipice they leaped,
 Till rock and tree seemed in their red blood steeped.
One of the sane men was a great distiller
And one sold liquors in a famous city;
And, by the way, one was an honest miller,
Who looked on both their trades in wrath and pity.
This good "Honestus" spoke to them, and said,
"You'd better jump; if you don't, others will."
Each took his meaning, yet each shook his head.
"That is no reason we ourselves should kill,"
Said they, while very stupid-brained they seemed,
As though they of the miller's meaning never dreamed.

NOT MADE FOR AN EDITOR.

BEING A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN INCIDENT IN THE HISTORY OF THE STUBBS FAMILY.

MR. and MRS. STUBBS were seated at the side of a red-hot cylinder
stove. On one side, upon the floor, a small black-and-white dog lay
very composedly baking himself; on the other, an old brown cat was,
in as undisturbed a manner, doing the same. The warmth that existed
between them was proof positive that they had not grown cold towards
each other, though the distance between them might lead one to
suppose they had.

In one corner of the room was the bust of a man, whose only
existence was in the imagination of a miserable ship-carver, who, in
his endeavors to breathe life into his block, came near breathing
life out of himself, by sitting up late at night at his task. In the
other hung a crook-necked squash, festooned with wreaths of
spider-webs. Above the mantel-piece was suspended a painting
representing a feat performed by a certain dog, of destroying one
hundred rats in eight minutes. The frame in which this gem of art
was placed was once gilt, but, at the time to which we refer, was
covered with the dust of ages.

Mr. Stubbs poked the fire. Mrs. Stubbs poked the dog, when suddenly
the door flew open, and their son entered with blackened eyes,
bloody hands; bruised face and dirty clothes, the most
belligerent-looking creature this side of the "Rio Grande."

"My voice a'nt still for war, it's loud for war," he said, as, with
a braggadocia sort of air, he threw his cap at the dog, who clenched
it between his teeth, shook it nearly to tatters, and then passed it
over to the cat.

"What's the matter now, Jake?" said Mrs. Stubbs. "Always in

trouble,--fights and broils seem to be your element. I don't know,
Jake, what will become of you, if you go on at this rate. What say
you, father?"
Mr. Stubbs threw down the poker, and casting a glance first at his
hopeful son, and then at his hoping wife, replied that Jake was an
ignorant, pugnacious, good-for-nothing scamp, and never would come
to anything, unless to a rope's end.

"O, how can you talk so?" said his wife. "You know it's nat'ral."

"Nat'ral!" shouted the father; "then it's ten times worse-the harder
then to rid him of his quarrelsome habits. But I've an idea," said
he, his face brightening up at the thought, as though he had
clenched and made it fast and sure.

The mother started as by an electric shock. The boy, who had retired
into one corner in a sullen mood, freshened up, and looked at his
father. The ship-carver's fancy sketch brightened up also; but not
of its own free will, for the force with which Mr. Stubbs brought
his hand in contact with the table caused the dirty veil to fall
from the bust-er's face.

"What is it?" inquired Mrs. Stubbs, with much animation.

"Why, my dear woman, as we can do nothing with him, we'll make him
an editor."

The old lady inquired what that was; and, being informed, expressed
doubts as to his ability.

"Why," said she, "he cannot write distinctly."

"What of that?'-let him write with the scissors and paste-pot. Let
him learn; many know q great deal more after having learned."

"But he must have some originality in his paper," said Mrs. Stubbs,
who, it seemed, did not fall in with the general opinion that "any
one can edit a paper."

"Never fear that," said Mr. Stubbs; "he'll conduct anything he takes
hold of, rather than have that conduct him. I'll tell you what, old
woman, Jake shall be an editor, whether he can write a line of
editorial or not. Jake, come here."

Jake, who had nearly forgotten his fight, was elated at the
proposition of his father, and, being asked whether, in his opinion,
he could conduct a paper with ability, originality and success,
replied, in the slang phrase of the day, that he "could n't do
anything else," at the same time clenching his fist, as though to
convince his sire that he could do something else, notwithstanding.

"As I have never asked you any question relative to public affairs,
and as the people of this generation are getting to be wise, I deem
it right that I should ask you a few questions before endeavoring to
obtain a situation. Now, Jake, who is the President of the United
States?"

"General George Washington," replied the intelligent lad, or rather

young man; for, though he indulged in many boyish tricks, he was
about twenty years of age, a short, dull-looking member of the
"great unwashed." The father intimated that he was mistaken; the son
persisted in saying that he was not.
"Never mind the catechizer," said Jake; "I'll conduct a newspaper, I
will, for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs never see the day I could n't conduct
anything."

"That's bright," said Mrs. Stubbs; "he possesses more talent than I
was aware of; he'll make an editor."

"An' he shall," said the father, resolutely.

The clock struck nine, which was the signal for Mr. and Mrs. Stubbs
to retire, and they did so. No sooner had they left than their
dutiful son mounted the table, and, taking down the fancy bust,
pulled the dog by the tail to awake him, and set him barking at it.
The cat must have her part in the tragedy, so Jake thought; and,
pulling her by the tail, she was soon on the field of action.

"Now, sist-a-boy, Tozer; give her an editorial," said he; and, as

dog and cat had been through the same performance before, they acted
their parts in manner suiting. The dog barked, the cat snapped and
snarled, and Jake Stubbs stood by rubbing his hands in a perfect
ecstasy of delight.

It is needless for us to relate the many curious adventures Mr.

Stubbs met with whilst searching for a situation for Jake.

His endeavors to find a situation such as he wanted were, for a long

time, ineffectual. At length he blundered into a small
printing-office, where three men and a boy were testing the merits
of half a dozen doughnuts, and a bottle of root beer.

Mr. Stubbs was very sorry to disturb them. When he mentioned his
errand, one of the men-a tall fellow, with check shirt and green
apron-said that he had, for a long time, contemplated starting a
paper, but, as he was not capable of editing one, he had not carried
out his intention. The principal reason why he had not published
was, he was poor; business had not prospered in his hands, and an
outlay of two thousand dollars would be needed to commence and
continue the paper.

"Very well," replied Mr. Stubbs, "that is a large sum; but, if there
is no doubt of its being returned, I might think of loaning it to
you, for the sake of getting my talented son into business."

"Not the least doubt, not the least," replied Mr. Pica; and he so
inflamed the imagination of Mr. Stubbs, that, strange as it may seem
to the cautious reader, he wrote a check for the amount, merely
taking the unendorsed note of Mr. Pica as security; then, hastening
home, he told Mrs. Stubbs to brush up the boy, for he was an editor.

Behold, now, Mr. Jake Stubbs in a little room up three pair of

stairs, preparing "copy" for the first number of "The Peg Top, or
the Buzz of the Nation." He hasn't got black eyes now; all the
blackness of his person, if not of his character, has settled in his
fingers, and they are black with ink. Not all settled, for a few
daubs of the "blood of the world," as the dark fluid has been
called, were to be seen on his forehead, having passed there from
his fingers, when leaning upon them in a pensive mood, vainly
endeavoring to bring up thoughts from the mighty depths of his
intellect,--so mighty, in fact, that his thoughts were kept there,
and refused to come up.

Mr. Jake Stubbs had been cutting and pasting all day, when, thinking
it a little too severe to inflict further duty upon the assistant
editor, he took his pen in hand, resolved upon writing a masterly
article as a leader.

A sheet of blank paper had lain on the table before him for nearly
an hour. He would sit and think. Some idea would pop into his head,
then with a dash would the pen go into the ink, but before he could
get his pen out the idea had flown, and the world was the loser.
Then he threw himself back into his chair,--thought, thought,
thought. At length Jake obtained the mastery, as patience and
perseverance always will, and the pen became his willing slave,
though his mind, being the slave-driver, did not hurry it on very
fast. He was able to pen a few words, and wrote "The war with
Mexico-"

Well, he had got so far; that was very original, and if he never
wrote anything else, would stamp him a man of talent. Into the ink,
on the paper, and his pen wrote the little word are. "The war with
Mexico are." Ten minutes more of steady thought, and three more
words brought him to a full stop. "The war with Mexico are a
indisputable fact." That last but one was a long word, and a close
observer could have seen his head expand with the effort.

"Copy, sir, copy!" shouted the printer's boy, as he stood with his
arms daubed with ink, and a straw hat upon his head that had seen
service, and looked old enough to retire and live on a pension.

"Copy what?" inquired the editor, who began to feel indignant,

imagining that the publisher had seen his labor to write an article,
and had sent him word to copy from some paper.

"Here," said he, "take this to Mr. Pica, and tell him 't is
original, and gives an account of the war with Mexico, with news up
to this date."

The boy took it, trudged up stairs with two lines of MS., and the
editor arose and walked his office, as though his labors were o'er,
and he might rest and see some mighty spirit engrave his name upon
the scroll of fame.

He had crossed the floor half a dozen times, when in came the same
youth, shouting "Copy, sir, copy!"

"Copy what?" shouted Jake, laying hold of the boy's shirt-sleeve.

"Tell me what you want copied! tell me, sir, or I will shake your
interiors out of you-"

The boy was small, but spunky. His education had been received at
the corners of the streets. He had never taken lessons of a
professor, but he had practised upon a number of urchins smaller
than himself, and had become a thoroughly proficient and expert
pugilist.

It was not for Bill Bite to be roughly handled by any one, not even
by an editor. So he pushed him from him, and said,
"I want copy; that's a civil question,--I want a civil answer."

Jake's organ of combativeness became enlarged. He sprang at the boy,

grasped him by the waist, and would have thrown him down stairs, had
not a movement the boy made prevented him.

Bill's arms were loose, and, nearing the table, he took the inkstand
and dashed the contents into the face of his assailant.

"Murder!" shouted the editor.

"Copy!" shouted the boy; and such a rumpus was created, that up came
Mr. Pica, saying that the building was so shaken that an article in
type on the subject of "Health and Diet" suddenly transformed itself
into "pi."

The two belligerents were parted; the editor and Master Bill Bite
stood at extremes. At this crisis who should enter but Mr. Stubbs,
senior, who, seeing his son's face blackened with ink, inquired the
cause rather indignantly; at which Mr. Pica, not recognizing in the
indignant inquirer the father of the "talented editor," turned
suddenly about and struck him a blow in the face, that displaced his
spectacles, knocked off his white hat into a pond of ink, and made
the old fellow see stars amid the cobwebs and dust of the ceiling.

The son, seeing himself again at liberty, flew at the boy, and gave
him "copy" of a very impressive kind.

Down from the shelves came dusty papers and empty bottles, whilst up
from the printing-office came the inmates, to learn the cause of
the disturbance.

A couple of police-officers passing at the time, hearing the noise,

entered, and one of them taking Mr. Stubbs, senior, and the other
Mr. Stubbs, junior, bore them off to the lock-up.

This affair put a sudden stop to "The Buzz of the Nation." The first
number never made its appearance.

Mr. Pica, having obtained the amount of the check, went into the
country for his health, and has not been heard from since.

Elder Stubbs and Stubbs the younger paid a fine of five dollars
each; and when they reached home and related to Mrs. Stubbs the
facts in the case, she took off her spectacles, and, after a few
moments' sober thought, came to the sage conclusion that her son
Jake was not made for an editor.

HERE'S TO THE HEART THAT'S EVER BRIGHT.

 HERE'S to a heart that's ever bright,
Whatever may betide it,
Though fortune may not smile aright,
And evil is beside it;
That lets the world go smiling on,
But, when it leans to sadness,
Will cheer the heart of every one
With its bright smile of gladness!
A fig for those who always sigh
And fear an ill to-morrow;
Who, when they have no troubles nigh,
Will countless evils borrow;
Who poison every cup of joy,
By throwing in a bramble;
And every hour of time employ
In a vexatious scramble.
What though the heart be sometimes sad!
'T is better not to show it;
'T will only chill a heart that's glad,
If it should chance to know it.
So, cheer thee up if evil's nigh,
Droop not beneath thy sadness;
If sorrow finds thou wilt not sigh,
'T will leave thy heart to gladness.

MORNING BEAUTY.

BRIGHTLY now on every hill

The sun's first rays are beaming,
And dew-drops on each blade of grass
Are in their beauty gleaming.
O'er every hill and every vale
The huntsman's horn is sounding,
And gayly o'er each brook and fence
His noble steed is bounding.
There's beauty in the glorious sun
When high mid heaven 't is shining,
There's beauty in the forest oak
When vines are round it twining;
There's beauty in each flower that blooms,
Each star whose light is glancing
From heaven to earth, as on apace
'T is noiselessly advancing.
Beauties are all around thy path,
And gloriously they're shining;
Nature hath placed them everywhere,
To guard men from repining.
Yet 'mong them all there's naught more fair,
This beauteous earth adorning,
 Than the bright beauty gathering round
The early hours of morning.

THE RECOMPENSE OF GOODNESS.

WHEN our hours shall all be numbered,

And the time shall come to die,
When the tear that long hath slumbered
Sparkles in the watcher's eye,
Shall we not look back with pleasure
To the hour when some lone heart,
Of our soul's abundant treasure,
From our bounty took a part?
When the hand of death is resting
On the friend we most do love,
And the spirit fast is hasting
To its holy home above,
Then the memory of each favor
We have given will to us be
Like a full and holy savor,
Bearing blessings rich and free.
O, then, brother, let thy labor
Be to do good while you live,
And to every friend and neighbor
Some kind word and sweet smile give.
Do it, all thy soul revealing,
And within your soul you'll know
How one look of kindly feeling
Cause the tides of love to flow.

BRIDAL SONGS.

TO THE WIFE.

LET a smile illume thy face,

In thy joyous hours;
Look of sympathy be thine,
When the darkness lowers.
He thou lovest movest where
Many trials meet him;
Waiting be when he returns,
 Lovingly to greet him.
Though without the world be cold,
Be it thy endeavor
That within thy home is known
Happiness forever.
TO THE HUSBAND.
WHATSOEVER trials rise,
Tempting thee to falter,
Ne'er forget the solemn vows
Taken at the altar.
In thy hours of direst grief,
As in those of gladness,
Minister to her you love,
Dissipate her sadness.
Be to cheer, to bless, to love,
Always your endeavor;
Write upon your heart of hearts
Faithfulness forever.

THE JUG AFLOAT.

"WHAT I tell thee, captain, is sober truth. If thee wishes to

prosper, thee must not allow thy sailors grog, lest, when at sea,
they become tipsy, and thy ship, running upon hidden rocks, shall be
lost; or else, when at the mast-head, giddiness come upon them, and,
falling, thy crew shall number one less."

Thus spake a good old Quaker, a native of the city of Penn. Captain
Marlin had been for many days and nights considering whether it were
best to carry a complement of wine for himself and friends, and grog
for his crew. He had that morning met Simon Prim, and asked his
opinion, which he gave as above; yet Captain Marlin seemed
undetermined. He felt it to be an important question, and he desired
to come to a right conclusion.

They had been passing up Broadway; had reached the Trinity, crossing
over towards Wall-street. Simon, with his usual gravity, raised his
hand, and, pointing to the towering steeple of the splendid edifice,
said:

"If thou, neighbor, desired to ascend yonder spire, thinkest thou

thou wouldst first drink of thy wine, or thy grog?"

"Certainly not," replied Captain Marlin.

"Then," continued the Quaker, "do not take it to sea with thee; for
thou or thy men mayest be called to a spot as high as yonder
pinnacle, when thee little thinkest of it."

The two walked down Wall-street without a word from either, till,
reaching a shipping-office, Captain Marlin remarked that he had
business within. The Quaker very politely bowed, and bade him take
heed to good counsel, and good-day.

The owner of the vessel was seated in an arm-chair, reading the

shipping news in the Journal.

"Did you know," said he, as his captain entered, "that Parvalance &
Co. have lost their ship, 'The Dey of Algiers,' and none were saved
but the cabin-boy, and he half dead when found?"

"Indeed not; when-where-how happened it?" inquired Captain Marlin,

in some haste.

"On a voyage from Canton, With a rich cargo of silks, satins, teas,
&c. The boy says that the men had drank rather too much, and were
stupidly drunk,--but fudge! Captain Marlin, you know enough to know
that no man would drink too much at sea. He would be sure to keep at
a good distance from a state of intoxication, being aware that much
was intrusted to his care which he could not well manage whilst in
such a state."

"Perhaps so," said Captain Marlin, doubtingly. "Mr. Granton, this

touches a question I have been for days considering. It is, whether
I shall allow my men grog."

"Of course, of course!" answered the ship-owner; "nothing so good

for them round the Cape. You know the winds there, rather tough
gales and heavy seas. Cold water there, Mr. Marlin! Why, rather give
them hot coffee with ice crumbled in it, or, carry out a cask of
ice-cream to refresh them! Man alive, do you think they could live
on such vapor? You talk like one who never went to sea, unless to
see a cattle-show."

Captain Marlin could not refrain from laughing at such reasoning,

yet was more than half inclined to favor it. He was fond of his
wine, and being, as such folks generally are, of a good disposition,
he wished to see all men enjoy themselves, especially when at sea.
He wished evil to no man, and had he thought that liquor might
injure any of his crew, he would not that morning, in that office,
have come to the conclusion to have it on board the "Tangus."

CHAPTER II.

On a bright, clear morning, a deeply-freighted ship started from a

New York slip; a fair wind bore it swiftly down the bay, and a few
minutes' sail found it far from sight of the metropolis of the
Union. Friends had taken the last glimpse of friends, the last
interchange of kindly feelings had passed, and deep waters now
separated them. It was the "Tangus," Robert Marlin captain, with a
picked crew, and bound for the coast of Sumatra. Simon Prim shook
his head, as he with others turned and walked home. "'T is a pity
men will not see evil and flee from it," said he, and he pulled his
straight coat-collar up, and thrust his hands more deeply than ever
into his pockets. He was a little startled by a light tap upon the
shoulder, and quite a happy voice exclaiming, "Why, Mr. Prim, how
are you?"

"Verily, neighbor; thou didst move me; but I was thinking so deeply
of Captain Marlin and his success, that no wonder thy light touch
should do so."

"But what of him, Prim?"

"His ship, the Tangus, has just left, bound on a long voyage, and
with a quantity of deadly poison on board, with which to refresh the
crew. I tell thee, neighbor, I have fears for the result. The jug
may possibly stand still when on land, but when it's afloat it's
rather unsteady."

"Very true, but you seem to express unusual anxiety in regard to

Captain Marlin and his good ship; thousands have been just as
imprudent."

"But not in these days of light and knowledge, friend. There have
been enough sad examples to warn men not to trifle on such subjects.
Twenty years ago I drank. We had our whiskey at our funerals and our
weddings. I have seen chief mourners staggering over the grave, and
the bridegroom half drunk at the altar; but times are changed now,
and thank God for the good that has been effected by this
reformation!"

"You speak true, Simon; and I wonder Captain Marlin could, if he

considered the evils brought about by intoxicating drink, carry it
to sea with him."

"I told him all as I tell it to thee, friend Jones. He asked my

opinion, and I gave it him, yet it seems he thought little of it.
Good-day, neighbor; I have business with a friend at the 'Croton,'
good-day;" and, saying this, Mr. Prim walked up a bye street.

Jones walked on, and thought considerable of the Quaker's last

words. His mind that day continually ran upon the subject. Indeed,
he seemed unable to think of anything else but of a jug afloat, and
at night spoke of it to his wife.

The wife of Captain Marlin had that day called upon Mrs. Jones, and,
although her husband had scarcely got out of sight, looked with
pleasure to the day of his return, and already anticipated the
joyous occasion. There is as much pleasure in anticipation as in
realization, it is often said, and there is much truth in the
saying. We enjoy the thought of the near approach of some wished for
day, but when it arrives we seem to have enjoyed it all before it
came.

Mrs. Jones was far from thinking it wrong in Captain Marlin that he
carried liquor with him on his voyage, and gave it as her opinion
that the vessel was as safe as it could possibly be without it.

"Remember what I say, that is a doomed ship," said Mr. Jones, after
some conversation on the subject.
"You are no prophet, my dear," said his wife, "neither am I a
prophetess; but I will predict a pleasant voyage and safe return to
the Tangus." With such opposite sentiments expressed, they retired.

CHAPTER III.

Insensible to all that is beautiful in nature, and grand and

majestic in the works of creation, must the heart of that man be who
can see no beauty, grandeur, or majesty, in the mighty abyss of
waters, rolling on in their strength-now towering like some vast
mountain, and piling wave upon wave, till, like pyramids dancing on
pyramids, their tops seem to reach the sky; then sinking as deep as
it had before risen, and again mounting up to heaven. There's beauty
in such a scene, and no less when, calm and unruffled, the setting
sun sinks beneath the horizon, and for miles and miles leaves its
long, glistening track upon the unmoved waters.

'T was so when the crew of the "Tangus" were assembled upon the deck
of that noble ship. The day previous had been one of hard labor; the
vessel had bravely withstood the storm, and seemed now to be resting
after the contest. Not a ripple was to be seen. Far as the eye could
reach, was seen the same beautiful stillness. So with the crew; they
were resting, though not in drowsy slumberings.

"I say what, Bill," remarked one, "'An honest man's the noblest work
of God,' somebody says, and that's our captain, every inch, from
stem to stern, as honest as Quaker Prim, of Gotham."

"Ay, ay, Jack," said another; "and did you hear how that same Prim
tried to induce Captain Marlin to deprive us of our right?"

"Grog, you mean?"

"Ay, ay."

"No; but how was it?"

"Arrah, the dirty spalpeen he was, if he was afther a trying for to

do that-the divil-"

"Will Mr. McFusee wait? By the way, Jack, he, Prim, got him by the
button, and began to pour into his ears a long tirade against a
man's enjoying himself, and, by the aid of thee, thy, and thou, half
convinced the old fellow that he must give up all, and live on
ice-water and ship-bread."

"Did?"

"Ay, ay, you know Captain Marlin. He always looks at both sides,
then balances both, as it were, on the point of a needle, and
decides, as Squire Saltfish used to say, 'cording to law and
evidence."

"By the powers, he's a man, ivery inch, from the crown of his hat to
the soles of his shoes, he is."

"Mr. McFusee, will you keep still?" said Mr. Boyden, the narrator.
Mr. McFusee signified that he would.

"Well, he balanced this question, and the evidence against flew up

as 't were a feather; but down went the evidence for, and he
concluded to deal every man his grog in due season."

"That's the captain, all over," remarked Jack.

As we before said, their labors the day previous were great, and, as
a dead calm had set in, and the vessel did not even float lazily
along, but remained almost motionless,--not like a thing of life, but
like a thing lifeless,--the captain ordered the crew each a can of
liquor, and now they sat, each with his measure of grog, relating
stories of the past, and surmises of the future.

"I tell you what," said Jack Paragon, "these temperance folks are
the most foolish set of reformers myself in particular, and the
United States, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico, in general, ever saw."

"Even so," remarked Mr. Boyden, "but they do some good. 'Give the
devil his due,' is an old saw, but none the less true for that.
There's Peter Porper, once a regular soaker, always said his
'plaints were roomatic,--rum-attic, I reckon, however, for he used to
live up twelve pairs of stairs,--he and the man in the moon were
next-door neighbors; they used to smoke together, and the jolly
times they passed were never recorded, for there were no newspapers
in those dark ages, and the people were as ignorant as crows. Well,
one of these temperance folks got hold of him, and the next I saw of
him he was the pet of the nation; loved by the men, caressed by the
women-silver pitchers given him by the former, and broadcloth cloaks
by the latter."

"No selfish motives in keeping temperate!" said Jack Rowlin,

ironically.

"Can't say; but liquor never did me harm. When I find it does, I
will leave off."

"That's the doctrine of Father Neptune-drink and enjoy life."

"Every man to his post!" shouted the captain, as he approached from

the quarterdeck. Quick to obey, they were where they were commanded
in an instant, each with his tin can half filled with liquor.
Captain Marlin, seeing this, ordered them to drink their grog or
throw it overboard; they chose the former mode of disposing of it,
and threw their empty cans at the cook.

In the distance a small black speck was decried.

CHAPTER IV.

The sun had set in clouds. The heavens were hung in darkness. Ever
and anon a peal of thunder echoed above, a flash of vivid lightning
illumed the waters, and far as eye could see the waters tossed high
their whitened crests. The winds blew stormy, and now heavy drops of
rain fell upon the deck of the "Tangus." "Every man to his duty!"
shouted the captain; but the captain's voice was not obeyed.

Objects at two feet distance could not be seen. Louder that voice
was heard. "Every man to his duty,--save the ship!"

"Captain, what is my duty?" inquired the cook.

"I appoint you under officer. Search for the men, and, if they are
not all washed over, tell them I order them to work. If they do not
know it, tell them the ship's in danger, and they must work."

The storm was fast increasing, till, at length, instead of

blackness, one sheet of livid flame clothed the heavens above. Now
all could be seen, and the captain busied himself. But two of the
crew were to be seen, and they lay as senseless as logs. They heeded
not the rage of the storm. The terrific peals of thunder awoke them
not-they were dead drunk!

By the time the storm commenced, the liquor they had drank began to
have its effect. Four of the crew, who were usually wide awake-that
is, uncommonly lively-when intoxicated, had unfortunately fell
overboard, and were lost.

The captain had now food for reflection, but the time and place were
not for such musings.

He endeavored to arouse them, but in vain; so, with the aid of the
only sober man aboard besides himself, he conveyed them to a place
of safety. In the mean time the ship strained in every joint, and he
momentarily expected to find himself standing on its wreck.

The waves washed the deck, and everything movable, cook-house and
all, went by the board. The only hope of safety was in cutting away
the masts, and to this task they diligently applied themselves. All
night the captain and cook worked hard, and when morning came they
found the storm abating. Soon the sun shone in its brightness; but
what a scene did its light reveal! The once stately ship dismasted;
four men, including the mate of the vessel, lost, and two lying
insensible in the cabin.

It was not strange that the question came home to the mind of
Captain Marlin, with force, "Is it right to carry liquor for a
ship's crew?" He need ask the opinion of no one; he could find an
answer in the scene around him.
CHAPTER V.

"Then thy ship has put in for repairs?" said Simon Prim, as he
entered Granton & Co.'s office, on Wall-street.

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Granton, who had heard nothing of the matter.
Simon, pulling a paper from his pocket, read:

"LOSS OF LIFE AT SEA.--By a passenger in the 'Sultan,' from--, we

are informed that the ship 'Tangus,' from this port, bound to
Sumatra, and owned by Messrs. Granton & Co., of this city, put in at
that place in a dismasted condition.

"The 'Tangus' had been three weeks out, when, in a gale, four men
were washed overboard. The remainder of her crew being insensible,
and the whole duty falling upon the captain and cook, they with
great difficulty managed the ship. It is rumored that all were
intoxicated. This is the seventh case of loss at sea, caused by
intemperance, within four months. When will men become wise, and
awake to their own interests on this topic?"

The ship-owner rapidly paced his office. "Can it be?" said he to

himself. "Can it be?"

"Give thyself no trouble, friend," said Prim; "what is done is done,

and can't be undone. Thy ship is not lost, and things are not so bad
as they might be. Look to the future, and mourn not over the past;
and remember that it is very dangerous to have a jug afloat."

These few words somewhat quieted him, yet not wholly, At this moment
the wife of Captain Marlin entered. Having heard of the news, she
came to learn all that was known respecting it.

"Madam," said he, after relating all he knew, "my mind is changed on
the question we some time since discussed. Yes, madam, my mind is
changed, and from this hour I will do all I can to exterminate the
practice of carrying grog to sea for the crew. And I tell thee
what," he continued, turning to friend Prim, who stood near by, "I
tell thee what, thee was right in thy predictions; and, though it
has been a dear lesson to me, I have learned from it that it is poor
policy that puts a jug afloat."

GIVE, AND STAY THEIR MISERY.

WOULD ye who live in palace halls,

With servants round to wait,
Know aught of him who, craving, falls
 Before thine outer gate?
Come with me when the piercing blast
Is whistling wild and free,
When muffled forms are hurrying past,
And then his portion see.
Come with me through the narrow lanes
To dwellings dark and damp,
Where poor men strive to ease their pains;
Where, by a feeble lamp,
The wearied, widowed mother long
Doth busy needle ply,
Whilst at her feet her children throng,
And for a morsel cry.
Come with me thou in such an hour,
To such a place, and see
That He who gave thee wealth gave power
To stay such misery!
Come with me,--nor with empty hand
Ope thou the poor man's door;
Come with the produce of thy land,
And thou shalt gather more.

THE SPIRIT OF MAN.

YE cannot bind the spirit down;

It is a thing as free
As the albatross-bird that wings
Its wild course o'er the sea.
Go, bind the lightning, guide the sun,
Chain comets, if you can;
But seek not with thy puny strength
To bind the soul of man.
Though all the powers of earth combine,
And all their strength enroll,
To bind man's body as they will,
They cannot bind his soul.
No power on earth can hold it down,
Or bid it hither stay,
As up to heaven with rapid course
It tireless wings its way.
Time is too limited for it,
And earth is not its clime;
It cannot live where sound the words,
"There is an end to time."
It seeks an endless, boundless sphere,
In which to freely roam;
Eternity its course of life,
Infinity its home.
There, there will it forever live;
And there, a spirit free,
 'T will range, though earth may pass away,
And Time no longer be.

PAUSE AND THINK.

O! HOW many souls are sorrowing

In this sunlit world, to-day,
Because Wrong, heaven's livery borrowing,
Leadeth trusting souls astray;
Because men, all thoughtless rushing,
Dance along on Error's brink,
And, the voice of conscience hushing,
Will not for a moment think!
'T is the lack of thought that bringeth
Man to where he needs relief;
'T is the lack of thought that wringeth
All his inner self with grief.
Would he give a moment's thinking
Ere his every step is made,
He would not from light be shrinking,
Groping on in Error's shade!
Think, immortal! thou art treading
On a path laid thick with snares,
Where mischievous minds are spreading
Nets to catch thee unawares.
Pause and think! the next step taken
May be that which leads to death;
Rouse thee! let thy spirit waken;
List to, heed the word it saith!
Think, ere thou consent to squander
Aught of time in useless mirth;
Think, ere thou consent to wander,
Disregarding heaven-winged truth.
When the wine in beauty shineth,
When the tempter bids thee drink,
Ere to touch thy hand inclineth,
Be thou cautious-pause and think!
Think, whatever act thou doest;
Think, whatever word is spoke;
Else the heart of friend the truest
May be by thee, thoughtless, broke.
How much grief had been prevented,
If man ne'er had sought to shrink
From the right:-to naught consented,
Until he had paused to think!
LITTLE NELLY.

MATILDA was a fashionable girl,--a young lady, perhaps, would be the

more respectable name by which to call her. She had been reared in
affluence. She had never known a want. She had had wants, but she
did not know it. She had wanted many things that make a lady's life
indeed a life. But Matilda never dreamt of such things.

It was n't fashionable to love the outcast, and therefore she

bestowed no pitying look on them. It was n't fashionable to give a
few pennies even to a poor, lame orphan girl in the street. So she
pretended not to have noticed the plea of little Nelly, who had
accosted her during her morning rambles.

"Little Nelly." I remember how she looked when at twilight she sat
down on a curb-stone to count the money. She looked sorrowful. She
was, indeed, worthy of pity; but little she got. The crowd went
hurrying, hustling on: few thoughts came down to little Nelly, on
the curb-stone. It had been a gala day. Red flags had flaunted on
high poles, and there had been a great noise of drums and fifes, and
everybody had seemed happy. Why, then, should sorrow come, with its
dark lantern, and look in the face of this little girl?

I will tell you.

There was a poor woman whose husband had been killed in Mexico. She
lived in one small room in a secluded part of the city, and by means
of her needle, and such assistance as was given to her daughter, who
diligently walked the streets, selling apples, she managed to live
in a style which she denominated "comfortable." Thus, for upwards of
one year, she toiled and lived, and was thankful for all her many
blessings.

But sickness came; not severe, but of that kind that bears its
victim along slowly to rest. She was unable to do much. She did not
wish to do much; but she sat day by day, yea, night by night often,
and diligently pursued the avocation that brought her daily bread.

Weeks passed, and yet she was ill. One morning, she called her
daughter to her side, and, taking her hand in her own, said:

"Little Nelly, 't is Independence day, to-day. You heard the guns
fire, and the bells ring, and the shouts of the happy children, this
morning, before you arose. I watched you as you lay listening to all
these, and I asked myself, Will my little Nelly be happy? and I
thought I heard my mother's voice;--she died long, long ago, but I
thought I heard her voice right at my side, saying, 'We shall all be
happy soon;' and I wept, for I could not help it.

"But I've called you now, Nelly, to tell you that I'm much better
this morning, and that, if you can get twenty-five cents to-day, we
will have a happy time to-night."

Little Nelly looked happy for a moment, but soon a shadow came over
her face; for she could not comprehend the meaning of her mother
when she said she was "better," for she looked more feeble than she
had ever seen her since the news of how her father was shot in the
face at Monterey was told her.

But she tried to be cheerful. She tried to smile, but, O, it was

very hard; and she got her mother's breakfast, and, having cleared
the things away, took her little basket, and her mother's purse, and
went out.

It was, indeed, a happy day without. There was joy depicted on every
countenance, and the general happiness infused some of its spirit
into the heart of our little trader. She seemed almost lost in the
great crowd; and there were so many dealers about, and so many that
presented greater attractions in the display of their stock, that
few bought of little Nelly.

It was late in the afternoon, and she had sold but a little, when
she encountered a young lady gayly dressed, in whose hand was
prominently displayed a bead purse, through the interstices of which
the gold and silver glistened.

Nelly held out her humble purse, in which no beads were wrought,
through which no coin glistened,--she held it up, and ventured to
ask, in pleasant tones, a few pennies of the lady. But not a penny
for little Nelly. Not even a look recognized her appeal, but costly,
flowing robes rushed by, and nearly prostrated her; they did force
her from the sidewalk into the gutter.

Go on, ye proud and selfish one! Go, bend the knee to Fashion's
altar, and ask a blessing of its presiding spirit! Bestow no pitying
glance on honest poverty; no helping hand to the weak and falling!
There is a law which God hath written on all his works, proclaiming
justice, and giving unto all as they shall ask of him. Pass on, and
heed not that little praying hand; but remember you cannot do so
without asking of that law its just requital.

Nelly walked on. She mingled again with the great mass, and twilight
came. It was then that she sat down, as I have before stated, to
count her money. She had but thirteen cents. All day she had sought
to dispose of her stock, that she might carry to her mother the sum
named, with which to have a happy time at home. And now the day had
gone; the night was drawing its great shadowy cloak about the earth,
and Nelly had but about one half of the required sum. What should
she do?

It was at this moment I met her. I stooped down, and she told me all
her story;--told me all her sorrow,--a great sorrow for a little
breast like hers. I made up the trifling amount, and, taking her by
the hand, we went together towards her home.

Reaching the house, we entered, and were met on the stairs by an old
lady, who whispered in my ear, "Walk softly." I suspected in a
moment the reason why she asked me thus to walk. She then led the
way. She tried to keep back the little girl, but she could not. She
hurried up the stairs, and through a long, dark entry, to a door,
which she quickly opened.

Nelly sprang to the bed on which lay her mother. I heard a sigh-a
sob. It was from the child. The mother spoke in a tone so joyous
that I was at first surprised to hear it from one who, it was
supposed, was near her end. But I soon found it was no matter of
surprise.

How clear and fair was that face! How pleading and eloquent those
eyes, as they turned, in all their full-orbed brightness, upon me,
as I approached the bedside of the mother of Nelly! There were
needed no words to convey to my mind the thoughts that dwelt within
that soul, whose strength seemed to increase as that of the body
diminished.

With one of her pale hands she took mine; with the other, that of
her daughter.

"Blessings on you both!" she said. "Nelly, my dear Nelly, my

faithful, loving Nelly, I am much better than I was; I shall soon be
well, and what a happy time we will have to-night! I hear that voice
again to-night, Nelly. Don't you hear it? It says, 'We shall all be
happy soon.' I see a bright star above your head, my child; and now
I see my mother. She is all bright and radiant, and there is a
beauty around her that I cannot describe. Nelly, I am better. Why, I
feel quite well."

She sprang forward, and, with her hands yet clasping Nelly's and my
own, she stretched her arms upward. There was a bright glow of
indescribable joy upon her features. She spoke calmly, sweetly
spoke. "We shall all be happy soon-happy soon-happy-" then fell back
on the pillow, and moved no more-spoke not again.

She was indeed happy. But, Nelly-she was sad. For a long time she
kept her hand in that of her mother. She at length removed it, and
fell upon the floor, beneath the weight of her new sorrow. Yet it
was but for a moment. Suddenly she sprang up, as if imbued with
angelic hope and peace. We were surprised to see the change, and to
behold her face beam with so much joy, and hear her voice lose its
sadness. We looked forth with that inner sight which, on such
occasions, seems quickened to our sense, and could see that mother,
and that mother's mother, bending over that child, and raising her
up to strength and hope, and a living peace and joy.

Nelly's little purse lay on the floor, where she had dropped it when
she came in. The old nurse picked it up, and laid it on a stand
beside the bed. A tear stole out from beneath the eyelids of the
child as she beheld it, and thought how all day she had worked and
walked to get the little sum with which her mother and she were to
be made happy on that Independence night. I called her to me. We sat
down and talked over the past, the present and the future, and I was
astonished to hear the language which her pure and gentle, patient
soul poured forth.

"Well, sir," she said, "we are happy to-night, though you think,
perhaps, there is greater cause for sorrow. But mother has gone from
all these toiling scenes. She will work no more all the long day,
and the night, to earn a shilling, with which to buy our daily
bread. She has gone where they have food that we know not of; and
she's happy to-night, and, sir, we shall all be happy soon. We shall
all go up there to live amid realities. These are but shadows here
of those great, real things that exist there; and I sometimes think,
when sitting amid these shadows, that it will be a happy time when
we leave them, and walk amid more substantial things."

Thus she talked for some time.

Having rendered such assistance as I could, I left. The next day

there was a funeral, and little Nelly was what they called "the
chief mourner;" yet it seemed a very inappropriate name for one
whose sorrow was so cheerful. There were but few of us who followed;
and, when we reached the grave, and the face of the earthly form was
exposed to the sunlight for the last time, little Nelly sung the
following lines, which I had hastily penned for the occasion:

WE SHALL ALL BE HAPPY SOON.

Dry our tears and wipe our eyes!

Angel friends beyond the skies
Open wide heaven's shining portal,
Welcome us to joys immortal.
Fear not, weep not, ours the boon;
We shall all be happy soon!
Hark! a voice is whispering near us;
'T is an angel-voice to cheer us;
It entreats us not to weep,
Fresh and green our souls to keep;
And it sings, in cheerful tune,
We shall all be happy soon.
Thus through life, though grief and care
May be given us to bear,
Though all dense and dark the cloud
That our weary forms enshroud,
Night will pass, and come the noon,
We shall all be happy soon.

When the last line of each verse was sung, it was no fancy thought
in us, in Nelly more than all others, that suggested the union of
other voices with our own; neither was it an illusion that pictured
a great thing with harps, repeating the words, "We shall all be
happy soon."

The sexton even, he who was so used to grave-yard scenes, was doubly
interested; and, when the last look was taken, and Nelly seemed to
look less in the dark grave and more up to the bright sky above her
than those in her situation usually do, I saw him watch her, and a
tear trickled down his wrinkled face.

As we turned to leave, I asked him why he wept. His features

brightened up. "For joy, for joy," said he. "I have put away the
dead here for forty long years; but I never beheld so happy a burial
as this. It seems as though the angels were with that child. She
looks so heavenly."

Perhaps they were. And why say "perhaps"? Do we not know they are
ever round us, and very near to such a one as Nelly, at such a time?

REUNION.

WHEN we muse o'er days departed,

Lights that shone but shine no more,
Friends of ours who long since started
O'er the sea without a shore;
Journeying on and journeying ever,
Their freed spirits wing their flight,
Ceasing in their progress never
Towards the fountain-head of light;
Oft we wish that they were near us,--
We might see the friends we love,--
Then there come these words to cheer us,
"Ye shall meet them all above."
When the sun's first ray approacheth,
Ushering in the noonday light;
When the noise of day encroacheth
On the silence of the night;
When the dreams depart that blest us
In the hours forever fled,--
In which friends long gone carest us,
Friends we number with the dead,--
Comes this thought, Ye ne'er shall hear them,
Ne'er shall see the friends ye love;
Voices say, "Ye shall be near them,
With them in the world above."
When within the grave's enclosure
Ye do drop the silent tear,
Tremble not at its disclosure,
Myriad spirits hover near.
Hark! they whisper, do ye hear not,
Mingling with your rising sighs,
Words that bid you hope, and fear not,
Angel-voices from the skies?
And as dust to dust returneth,--
That which held the gem you love,--
Thine afflicted spirit learneth
It will meet that gem above.
Thus whene'er a friend departeth
In my soul I know 't is right;
And, although the warm tear starteth,
As he passes from my sight,
I do know that him I cherish
Here on earth shall never die;
That, though all things else shall perish,
 He shall live and reign on high.
And, that when a few hours more
Shall have passed, then those I love,
Who have journeyed on before,
I shall meet and greet above.

THE VILLAGE MYSTERY.

ABOUT fifty miles from a southern city, about five years ago, a most
mysterious personage seemed to fall from the clouds into the midst
of a circle of young ladies, whose hours and days were thenceforth
busily employed in quizzing, guessing, pondering and wondering.

He was a tall, graceful-formed gentleman, wearing a

professional-looking cloak, and buff pants, tightly strapped over
boots of delicate make, polished up to the very highest capabilities
of Day and Martin. He had no baggage; which fact led some
wise-headed old ladies to report him to be a gentleman of leisure, a
literary millionaire, it might be, who was travelling through "the
States" for the purpose of picking up items for a book on "Ameriky."
The old men wagged their heads, and looked most impenetrably
mysterious. The young men became jealous. To be sure he was not
superlatively handsome, but he had a foreign air, which was
considerable among the girls; and his appearance indicated wealth,
for his dress was of the first quality and cut. He had half a dozen
glistening rings on his hands; he wore a breast-pin of dazzling
brilliance; and every time he moved a chained lion could not have
made more noise, and clatter, and show with his fetters, than he did
with a massive double-linked chain, that danced and flirted upon his
crimson vest.

Abby and Nelly, the belles of the place, had each had an eye upon
the new comer, since he passed by the splendid mansion of their
abode, casting a sly glance up to the open window at which they
stood.

In a week, our foreign friend had made the circuit of all the
fashionable society of Greendale. He had drank tea with the
"Commissioners," and walked out with their amiable daughters. He had
visited the pastor, and had evinced great interest in the prosperity
of the church. He had even exhorted in the conference-meeting, and
had become so popular that some few, taking it for granted that so
devout a man must be a clergyman, had serious thoughts of asking the
old parson to leave, and the stranger to accept the pulpit,--four
hundred and eighty-two dollars a year, and a donation-party's
offerings. He had attended the sewing-circle, and made himself
perfectly at home with everybody and everything. The young men's
society for ameliorating the condition of the Esquimauxs and
Hottentots had been favored with his presence; and, likewise, with a
speech of five minutes long, which speech had, in an astonishingly
short time, been printed on pink satin and handsomely framed.

The lower class of people, for whom the stranger talked so much, and
shed so many tears, and gave vent to so many pitiful exclamations,
but with whom, however, he did not deign to associate, were filled
with a prodigious amount of wonder at the lion and his adventures.
They gathered at Squire Brim's tavern, and at the store on the
corner, and wondered and talked over the matter. The questions with
them were, Who is he?-where did he come, and where is he going to?
They would not believe all they had heard conjectured about him, and
some few were so far independent as to hint of the possibility of
imposition.

There were two who determined to find out, at all hazards, the name,
history, come from and go to, of the mysterious guest; and, to
accomplish their purpose, they found it necessary for them to go to
Baltimore early the subsequent morning.

The morning came. After taking a measurement of the height, breadth

and bulk of the foreigner, as also a mental daguerreotype of his
personal appearance, they departed.

Having been very politely invited, it is no strange matter of fact

that, just as the sun has turned the meridian, on the fifth of
March, a young man is seen walking slowly upon the shady side of
Butternut-street, Greendale. To him all eyes are directed. Boys stop
their plays, and turn their inquisitive eyes towards the pedestrian.
The loungers at Brim's tavern flock to the door, and gaze earnestly
at him; while Bridget the house-maid, and Dennis the hostler, hold a
short confab on the back stairs, each equally wondering whose
"bairn" he can be.

As he continues on his way, he meets a couple of sociable old

ladies, with whom he formed an acquaintance at the sewing-circle.
They shake hands most cordially.

"Abby and Nelly are waiting for you; they're expecting you," says
one of the ladies, as she breathes a blessing and bids him good-by,
with a hope that he will have a pleasant time at the deacon's.

Let us now take a few steps in advance, and enter the hospitable
mansion to which our mysterious personage, who has given his name as
Sir Charles Nepod, is passing.

Up these beautiful white steps walk with dainty tread. At this

highly-polished door ring with gentle hand.

A stout serving-man answers our call, and a tittering serving-girl

scampers away and conceals herself behind the staircase, as we
enter. What, think you, can be going on? A wedding,
forsooth,--perhaps a dinner-party.

A brace of charming girls, the deacon's only daughters, are seated

in the front parlor. We are introduced, and soon learn that they are
waiting the arrival of the talented, the benevolent Sir Charles;
and, as a matter of form and courtesy, rather than of sincerity and
hospitality, we are invited to remain and meet him in the
dining-room. We decline; bid them good-by, and leave. As we pass
out, we are hailed in a loud whisper by the man who first met us,
who glibly runs on with his talk as he leads the way, walking
sideways all the time to the door.

"An' sirs,--sirs, dus yers know what the young Misthresses is afther?
Well, sirs, they's going' fur to hev' a greath dinner with the
furriner. Yes, sirs, with the furriner as come frum a furrin land,
and was n't born in this at all a' tall."

As we reach the door, he steps up, whispers in our ears, "An' I

tells yer what, sirs, Kate,--that's the gal yer sees, sirs,--me and
she's goin' to see all frum the little winder beyant. This is
conveniently private to you, sirs, an' I hopes ye'll say nothing to
no one about it, sirs; 't is a private secret, sirs."

What should induce this man to give us this information, we cannnot

conceive. However, we have no reason to doubt what he tells us, and
therefore understand that a dinner-party is to come off, with a
wedding in perspective.

As we pass into the street, we meet Nepod.

As he ascends the steps, the two girls, forgetting all rules of

etiquette, spring to the door, completely bewildering honest Mike,
who is at hand, and welcome the man of the age.

"Mother and aunty have just gone out," says Nelly;--"they thought we
young folks would enjoy our dinner much better by ourselves alone."

"How considerate!" replies the guest. "I met the good old ladies on
the street. How kind in them to be so thoughtful! How pleasantly
will pass the hours of to-day! This day will be the happiest of my
life."

The three pass to the dining-room. Though early in March, the

weather is quite warm. In the haste of the moment, and somewhat
confused by his warm welcome, our hero has taken his hat and cloak
and laid them on a lounge near an open window. Seated at the table,
the company discourse on a variety of subjects, and the two sisters
vie with each other in doing the agreeable.

Down town all was excitement, and a great crowd was gathered at the
tavern. The investigating committee had returned from the city, and
with the committee three men of mysterious look. To the uninitiated
the mystery that had puzzled them for so long a time grew yet more
mysterious. Nothing could be learned from the two who had returned,
respecting Sir Charles, or the additional strangers. Only dark and
mysterious hints were thrown out, rendering the whole affair more
completely befogged than before.

Mr. Brim, the keeper of the tavern, silently conducted the new
comers out by a back passage, and soon they were seen in the same
path which Sir Charles had followed.

One of the men quietly opened the front door of the deacon's home,
and, entering, knocked upon the door of the dining-room. A voice
said, "Come in;" and he proceeded to do so.

In an instant, as if struck by an electric shock, the distinguished

guest sprang from the table, and leaped through the open window,
leaving his hat and cloak behind. But the leap did not injure him,
for he fell into the arms of a man who stood ready to embrace him;
and, mystery on mystery, they placed hand-cuffs on his wrists!

Judge, if you can, of the astonishment and mortification of the

deacon's girls, when they were told that he who had been their guest
was a bold highwayman, who had escaped from the penitentiary.

There was great ado in Greendale that afternoon and evening. Those
who had been unable to gain his attention said they knew all the
time he was a rogue. The young men's society voted to sell the frame
and destroy the printed speech; and the next Sabbath the good pastor
preached about a roaring lion that went about seeking whom he might
devour.

THE WAYSIDE DEATH.

Not many years since, an old man, who had for a longtime sat by the
wayside depending upon the charity of those who passed by for his
daily bread, died a few moments after receiving an ill-mannered
reply to his request for alms. Subsequent inquiries proved that he
had been a soldier in the American Revolution.

WHEN Freedom's call rang o'er the land,

To bring its bold defenders nigh,
Young Alfred took a foremost stand,
Resolved to gain the day or die.
And well he fought, and won the trust;
When the day's conflicts had been braved,
The foe's proud ensigns lay in dust,
While Freedom's banner victor waved.
But now he is a poor old man,
And they who with him, side by side,
Fought bravely in that little van,
Have left him, one by one,--have died.
And now to no one can he tell,
Though touched with patriot fire his tongue,
The story of those days which well
Deserve to be by freemen sung,
And cherished long as life shall last;
To childhood told, that it may know
Who braved the storm when came the blast,
And vanquished Freedom's direst foe.
He sits there on the curb-stone now,
That brave old man of years gone by;
His head 'neath age and care would bow,
But yet he raiseth it on high,
And, stretching out his feeble hands,
He asks a penny from man's purse,
Food for himself from off that land
 He fought to save. Yet, but a curse
Falls from their lips to greet his ear;
And he, despairing, turns and sighs,
And bows his head,--there fills one tear,
It is the last-he dies.
Now men do rudely lift his hat,
To gaze upon his furrowed face,
And say, "It is the man who sat
Here for so long a foul disgrace."
Crowds gather round the spot to see,
And then pass idly on, and say,
To those who ask who it can be,
"'T is but a vagrant of the way."
Thus he who fought and bled to gain
The blessings which are round us strewn,
For one he asked, besought in vain,
Received man's curse, and died-unknown.
O, my own country! shall it be,
That they who through thy struggle passed,
And bore thy banner manfully,
Shall thus neglected die at last?
O, shall it be no help shall come
From thy overflowing wealth to bless?
Wilt thou be blind, wilt thou be dumb,
To pleas like theirs in wretchedness?
Answer! and let your answer be
A helping hand lowered down to raise
From want and woe those who for thee
Won all thy honor, all thy praise,
And made thee what thou art to-day,
A refuge and a hope for man;
Speak! ere the last one wings away;
Act! act while yet to-day you can.

BEAUTY AND INNOCENCE.

[FOR AN ENGRAVING OF COTTAGE GIRL AND LAMB.]

O, MAIDEN, standing in the open field,

On pasture sparkling with the morning dew!
What joy thou findest Nature now to yield
To hearts developed right,--hearts that are true!
Above is beauty, as along the sky
The dawn of light sends forth its herald ray
To arch the heavens, and myriad leagues on high
Proclaim the coming of the god of day.
Beneath is beauty; see the glistening gems
Around thy feet in rich profusion strewn;
Such as ne'er glows in kingly diadems,
Such as man's handiwork hath never shown.
 Around is beauty; on each vale and hill,
In open field and in the shady wood,
A voice is whispering, soft, and low, and still,
"All, all is beautiful, for God is good."
Thou, too, art beautiful, O, maiden fair,
While Innocence within thine arms doth rest;
And thou wilt e'er be thus, no grief thou 'lt share,
If such a blessing dwell within thy breast
As that whose emblem now lies gently there.

NIGHT.

I'VE watched the sun go down, and evening draw

Its twilight mantle o'er the passive earth,
And hang its robe of blue, all gemmed with stars,
High over all for mortal eyes to gaze at.
And now I come to tread this sodded earth,
To walk alone in Nature's vaulted hall;
Yet, not alone;--I hear the rustling leaf,
The cricket's note, the night-bird's early lay;
I feel the cool breeze as it fans my brow,
And scent the fragrance of the untainted air.
I love the night. There's something in its shade
That sends a soothing influence o'er the soul,
And fits it for reflection, sober thought.
It comes bearing a balm to weary ones,
A something undefinable, yet felt
By souls that feel the want of something real.
And now 't is night, and well it is that I
Am here. I stand, my hand on this old tree,
Pressing its mossy side, with no one near
I can call fellow in the human strife,
The great, unfinished drama of this life.
Alone, alone, with Nature and its God,
I'll sit me down, and for a moment muse
On busy scenes, and, like some warrior chief,
Behold, yet mingle not in earth's great acts.
To-night how various are the states of men!
Some, bowed by sickness, press their sleepless couch,
Wishing while day doth last that night would come,
And now that night is with them wish for day.
Remorse holds some in its unyielding grasp;
Despair, more cruel yet, haunts some men's souls;
Both, ministers of justice conscience sends
To do its fearful bidding in those breasts
Which have rebelled and disavowed its rule.
Perchance, a maiden happy as a queen
To-night doth fix her destiny. A happy throng
Gather around, and envy her her bliss.
They little know what magic power lies low
In the filled wine-cup as they pass it round;
They little think it plants a venomed dart
In the glad soul of her whose lips do press
Its dancing sparkles.
Sorrow's nucleus!
Round that cup shall twine memories so dark
That night were noonday to them, to their gloom.
Dash it aside! See you not how laughs
Within the chalice brim an evil eye?
Each sparkling ray that from its depth comes up
Is the foul tempter's hand outstretched to grasp
The thoughtless that may venture in his reach.
How to-night the throng press on to bend
The knee to Baal, and to place a crown
On Magog's princely head! Dollars and dimes,
A purse well-filled, a soul that pants for more;
An eye that sees a farthing in the dust,
And in its glitter plenitude of joy,
Yet sees no beauty in the stars above,
No cause for gladness in the light of day,--
A hand that grasps the wealth of earth, and yields
For sake of it the richer stores of heaven;
A soul that loves the perishing of earth,
And hates that wealth which rust can ne'er corrupt.
How many such! How many bar their souls
'Gainst every good, yet ope it wide to wrong!
This night they're all in arms. They watch and wait;
Now that the sun hath fled, and evening's shade
Doth follow in its path, they put in play
The plans which they in daylight have devised,
Entrapping thoughtless feet, and leading down
The flower-strewn path a daughter or a son,
On whose fair, white brow, the warm, warm moisture
Of a parent's kiss seems yet to linger.
Stay! daughter, son, O, heed a friend's advice,
Rush not in thoughtless gayety along!
Beware of pit-fills. Listen and you'll hear
From some deep pit a warning voice to thee;
For thousands low have fallen, who once had
Hopes, prospects, fair as thine; they listened, fell!
And from the depths of their deep misery call
On thee to think. O, follow not, but reach
A helping hand to raise them from their woe!
Clouds hide the moon; how now doth wrong prevail!
Wrong holdeth carnival, and death is near.
O, what a sight were it for man to see,
Should there on this dark, shrouded hour
Burst in an instant forth a noonday light!
How many who are deem�d righteous men,
And bear a fair exterior by day,
Would now be seen in fellowship with sin!
Laughing, and sending forth their jibes and jeers,
And doing deeds which Infamy might own.
But not alone to wrong and base intrigue
Do minister these shades of night; for Love
Holds high her beacon Charity to guide
To deeds that angels might be proud to own.
Beneath the shadows that these clouds do cast,
Hath many a willing hand bestowed a gift
 Its modest worth in secret would confer.
No human eye beheld the welcome purse
Dropped at the poor man's humble cottage door;
But angels saw the act, and they have made
A lasting record of it on the scroll
That bears the register of human life.
Many a patient sufferer watches now
The passing hours, and counts them as they flee.
Many a watcher with a sleepless eye
Keeps record of the sick man's every breath.
Many a mother bends above her child
In deep solicitude, in deathless love.
Night wears away, and up the eastern sky
The dawn approaches. So shall life depart,--
This life of ours on earth,--and a new birth
Approach to greet us with immortal joys,
So gently on our inner life shall come
The light of heaven.
Time moveth on, and I must join again
The busy toil of life; and I must go.
And yet I would not. I would rather stay
And talk with these green woods,--for woods can talk.
Didst ever hear their voice? In spring they speak
Of early love and youth, and ardent hope;
In summer, of the noon of wedded life,
All buds and blossoms and sweet-smelling flowers;
In autumn, of domestic bliss with all its fund
Of ripe enjoyments, and then winter hears
The leafless trees sing mysterious hymns,
And point their long lean arms to homes above.
Yes, the old woods talk, and I might hold
A sweet communion here with them to-night.
Farewell to Night; farewell these thoughts of mine,
For day hath come.

NOT DEAD, BUT CHANGED.

I SAT and mused o'er all the years gone by;

Of friends departed, and of others going;
And dwelt upon their memories with a sigh,
Till floods of tears, their hidden springs o'erflowing,
Betrayed my grief. Soon, a bright light above me,
Voices saying, "We're near thee yet to love thee,"
Dispelled my tears. I raised my drooping head,
And asked, "Who, who,--the dead?"
When the angelic lost around me ranged
Whispered within my ear, "Not dead, but changed."
THE DISINHERITED.

MY next door neighbor's name was Jotham Jenks. This was all I knew
about him, until the circumstance I am about to tell you occurred.

One evening I had seated myself by my fire, and had taken up an

evening paper with which to occupy my time, until an acquaintance of
mine, who I momentarily expected, should arrive. It was
December,--cold, blustering, and by no means an agreeable time to be
out of doors, or away from a good fire. Such being the state of
affairs, as far as weather was concerned, I began to think I should
not see my friend that night, when a smart rap upon the outer door,
half a dozen times repeated, prevented me from further speculation.

Why did n't he ring?-there was a bell. It must have been a stranger,
else he would have used it.

Presently a servant came with the information that a stranger was at

the door with a carriage, and wished my immediate presence.

"Request him to walk in," said I.

"He cannot wait a moment," answered the servant;--"he wishes you to

put on your hat and coat, and go with him."

"Where?"

"He did not say."

This was a strange interruption,--strange that a man, a stranger, in

fact, should call for me to go out with him on such a night; but I
mustered courage, and went out to meet him. I don't know what
induced me so readily to grant his request; but out I went, hatted,
coated and booted. As I approached, I heard the falling of steps,
and the voice of the coachman requesting me to hurry. Reaching the
carriage, I looked in and beheld Jotham Jenks. In I jumped, and
before I was seated the carriage was moving.

The whip snapped, the wheels whirled round, and we passed through
the lighted streets with almost incredible speed. I ventured to make
an inquiry, and the reply was,

"You are doing a good deed. My name is Jotham Jenks. Ask no

questions now."

Thus was a veto put upon the movements of my tongue for the time
being. I, however, recognized the voice of Mr. Jenks; and though I
knew but little respecting him, I judged from his appearance that he
was a quiet, unoffending man; and such I afterwards found him.

For thirty minutes the horses raced along, causing the water, ice
and snow, to take to themselves wings and fly upon pedestrians,
windows, and sundry other animate and inanimate objects of creation.
For myself, I began to experience some misgiving, for thus exposing
myself to what, I did not know.

At length the carriage turned down a dark, narrow street, leading to

one of the wharves, upon which we finally found ourselves. The
driver jumped from his seat, opened the carriage-door, threw down
the steps, and we got out.

Matters had reached a crisis. Was I to be thrown into the water? The
assurance of my companion that I was doing a good deed seemed to
disfavor this supposition, as what possible good could that do
myself or any one else? Yet, for what was I taken from a warm room,
on such a cold, dismal, dark night, and hurried to the wharf?

"Now," said I to the stranger, "I must know the meaning of all
this,--the why and the wherefore."

He took my hand in his. It was quite dark. I could not see, yet I
could tell by his voice that he wept, as he said,

"In a berth in the cabin of that vessel lies a young man, far from
his home, among strangers,--sick, perhaps dying. No relative, other
than those of the great brotherhood of. mankind, is near to minister
to his wants, or to speak comfort to his troubled heart. He had been
here about two days, when I was informed of his situation by a
friend who came in the same vessel. I have brought you here that you
might listen to his statements, and assist me in assisting him.
There is much of romance in his narrative, and, as you are preparing
a volume of life-sketches, as found in town and country, I have
thought that what falls from his lips might fill a few pages with
interest and profit to your readers."

I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. My suspicions and fears were

all allayed; I asked no more questions, but followed my friend as he
passed to the vessel, and descended the narrow stairway to the
cabin.

A small lamp hung from the ceiling, and shed a sort of gloomy light
around. I had been in chambers of sickness, but never in a room
where more neatness was discernible, or more sufficiency for its
tenant, than in the cabin in which I then was. A sailor boy seated
by a berth indicated to me the spot where the sick man lay. We were
informed that he had just fallen into a sleep, and we were careful
not to awake him.

But, notwithstanding all our care, our movements awoke him. He gazed
around as one often does after a deep sleep; but a consciousness of
his situation, and a recognition of my companion, soon dispelled his
vacant looks, and his features were illumed with as expressive a
smile as it has ever been my fortune to behold.

I was introduced to the invalid, and soon we were as familiar as old

acquaintances. His name was Egbert Lawrence, and his age I should
judge from appearances to be about twenty-five.

"It is possible that my dear, good friend, Mr. Jenks, has given you
some account of my circumstances," he remarked, addressing me.
I replied that he had not, any further than to state that he was
friendless. He started, as I said this, and exclaimed,

"Friendless! His own modesty, that sure mark of true merit, induced
him to say that; but, dear sir, I have a friend in him, greater than
in any other on earth now. I had a friend, but, alas! she's gone."

I corrected his impression; remarked that I only intended to convey

the fact that he was in a strange country, among a strange people,
and that Mr. Jenks had told me he was worthy of assistance, and that
a sketch of his life would interest me.

"Then you would like to hear of my past, would you?"

"Most certainly," I replied; "and should consider it a favor should

you consent to give it to me."

To this he at once consented.

"I was born in the west of England," he began, "and can well
remember what a charming little village it was in which I passed my
earliest days. My mother was a woman of the finest
sensibilities,--too fine, in fact, for the rough winds of this world.
Her heart beat too strongly in sympathy with the poor and oppressed,
the weary-footed and troubled ones, to live among and not have the
weight of their sorrows and cares bear also upon her, and gradually
wear out the earth tenement of her spirit.

"As far as a fine, sensitive feeling was hers, so far it was mine. I
inherited it. But I would not flatter myself so much as to say that
I, in like manner, partook of her heavenly, loving nature, or that I
in any of her noble traits was worthy of being her son.

"Many times have I been the bearer of her secret charities. Many
times have I heard the poor bless the unknown hand that placed
bounties at their door. Many times have I seen my mother weep while
I told her of what I heard the recipients of her benevolence tell
their neighbors, and the many conjectures in their minds as to who
the donor could be. And, O, there was joy sparkling in her eyes when
I told her of what I had seen and heard! The grateful poor,
concluding, after all their surmising, that, as they could not tell
for a certainty who it was who gave them food and clothing, they
would kneel down and thank God; for, said they, in their honest,
simple manner, He knows. The benevolent hand cannot hide itself from
his presence, or escape his reward.

"My father was quite a different person. How it was they met and
loved, I could not for a long time determine. But one evening my
mother told me all about it, and said he was not the man of her
choice, but of her parents' choice; and that she had never loved him
with that deep and earnest love that alone can bind two hearts in
one embrace. But she said she had endeavored to do her duty towards
him. Good woman! I knew that. 'T was her very nature to do that. 'T
was a law of her being, and she could not evade it.

"My father was a rough, coarse-minded man. He held an office under

the government, and, from being accustomed to the exercise of some
little authority without doors, became habituated to a morose,
ill-natured manner of words and behavior within our home. I remember
how I changed my tone of voice, and my mode of action, when at night
he came home. With my mother I talked and laughed, and played
merrily in her presence, and rather liked to have her look on my
sports; but when my father came I never smiled. I sat up on my chair
in one corner as stiff and upright as the elm-tree, in front of our
house. I never played in his presence. I seldom heard a kind word
from him. My mother used to call me 'Berty, my dear,' when she
wished me; but my father always shouted, sternly, 'Egbert, come
here, sir!' and I would tremblingly respond, 'Sir.'

"Few persons seemed to love him; those who did, did so with an eye
to business. It was policy in them to flatter the man who could
favor them pecuniarily, and they hesitated not to do so. One time,
when my father's vote and influence were worth five thousand pounds
to his party, and he exhibited symptoms of withholding them, he had
rich presents sent him, and every night some half a dozen or more
would call in and sit and talk with him, and tell him how admirably
all the schemes he had started for the good of the town had
succeeded, and in all manner of ways would flatter the old
gentleman, so that he would be quite pleasant all the next day. At
this time handsome carriages came to take him to ride, and gentlemen
proposed an afternoon's shooting or fishing, or sport of some kind,
and my father always accepted and was always delighted. The simple
man, he couldn't see through the gauze bags they were drawing over
his head! lie did not notice the nets With which they were
entangling his feet. When election came, he gave his vote, and did
not keep back his influence.

"My father was not benevolent to any great degree. He gave, it is

true. He gave to missionary societies, to education and tract
societies, and his name was always found printed in their monthly
reports; but he never gave, as my mother did, to the poor around us,
unseen, unknown. Not even he knew of my mother's charitable acts;
but all the town knew of his, and he was looked upon by the great
mass of public mind to be the most benevolent. But it was not so.
Far from it. One shilling from my mother, given with the heart, with
sympathy, given for the sake of doing good, not for the sake of
popularity, was a greater gift than a hundred pounds from my
father's hand, given as he always gave it.

"I attended school but little. My mother wished me to have a good

education, but my father said if I could 'figure' well it was
enough. I was taken from school and put in a store,--a place which I
abhorred. I was put there to sell tape, and pins, and thread, and
yarn; and I was kept behind the counter from early morn until late
at night.

"I had one brother, but his mind was nothing like mine. He partook
of my father's nature. We seldom agreed upon any matter, and I
always chose to be alone rather than with him. I do not think I was
wrong in this, for our minds were of different casts. Neither of us
made our minds or our dispositions. There was, therefore, no blame
upon any one, if, on account of the difference in our mental
organizations, our affinities led us apart. It was a perfectly
natural result of a natural cause.

"I will not weary you with more detail of my life to-night; but
to-morrow, if you have any interest in what I have begun to tell
you, I will tell you more."
I had noticed that he began to be exhausted with his effort, and was
about to propose that a future time be allotted to what more he
chose to relate.

I assured him of an increased interest in him, and suggested

removing him to a good boarding-house. He at first declined, but
upon further urging he accepted, and, having seen that all his wants
were for that night attended to, we left; with the understanding
that a carriage should convey him to more commodious quarters on the
morrow, if the weather permitted.

I had no fears of my companion as we rode up the wharf and drove

through the streets, the storm beating down furiously around us. I
reached my home, and Mr. Jenks thanked me for my kindness in blindly
following him, and I in return thanked him for the pleasant
adventure to which he had introduced me.

CHAPTER II.

The next morning the weather was clear and the air invigorating, as
is often the case after a severe storm. With my neighbor Jenks I
procured a good home for the wanderer, and in a short time he was
located in it.

I was soon seated by his side, and he continued his narrative.

"I told you last evening of my parents, and of my entrance upon

business life. About that time a great sorrow visited me. My mother
was taken sick, rapidly declined, and in a fortnight left this state
of existence. Beyond this world it seemed all dark to me then; but
now it is brighter there than here, and there is no uncertainty in
my mind respecting that coming state.

"I have not told you she died. She did not die. There is no such
word as death in my vocabulary. She did not sleep even. She passed
from a crumbling, falling building into an enduring and beautiful
temple, not made with hands. But to me, then, as I have told you, it
was all dark; and it was not a wonder that I was sad, and that it
was indeed a heavy sorrow that rested on my spirit. Even with the
faith that she had, the thought of being left with a man such as my
father was would have made me sad. You will wonder, perhaps, that I
had not learned from such a mother as mine a clearer faith than that
which possessed my mind at the time of her departure; but I had not.
It was impossible for me to accept a truth with that amount of
evidence which satisfied her mind, and I doubted, at times, a future
existence. But I do not doubt it now. I have had proof,--abundant
proof; and, O, the joy that fills my soul is unfathomable.

"My father now became more tyrannical than ever, and everything
tended to destroy whatever there was of my mother's disposition in
my character. But nothing could force it from me. I was sensitive as
ever to the remarks and the looks of all with whom I came in
contact, and the severe and unmerited reprimands of my father almost
crushed me.

"Several years passed by. I wasted them in a retail store. It was,

however, not a complete loss to me, for there I formed an
acquaintance with a young lady, the daughter of a poor collier. Our
friendship ripened to mutual love, and we were happy only when in
each other's presence. Our interviews were frequent, and unknown to
any one but ourselves for a long time. At length my father became
acquainted with the facts. He called me to his room one night, and
scolded me, threatened to disinherit me, and treated me as though I
had been guilty of the most heinous crime.

"'You miserable, good-for-nothing scamp!' said he. 'Why do you seek

to lower yourself in the estimation of every man, and bring disgrace
on the name and fame of my family, by associating with the poor
daughter of a worthless laborer?'

"This fired my brain; but I was timid and dare not speak my thoughts
in his presence. I listened. He showered upon me all the evil
epithets his tongue could dispense, and, raving like a madman, he
pushed me to the door, and told me to cease my visits upon Evelina
or leave his house forever and change my name, for he would not
shelter me, or own any relationship to me.

"Poor girl! She little thought how much I that night endured for
her, or how much I was willing to bear. She was a beautiful
being,--so much like my mother, so gentle, and loving, and
benevolent! We were one. True, no earthly law recognized us as such;
but God's law did,--a law written with his hand on our beating
hearts. We had been joined far, far back, ages gone by, when our
souls first had their birth,--long ere they became enshrined in earth
forms. The church might have passed its ceremonial bond about us,
but that would have been mere form--that would have been a union
which man might have put asunder, and often does. But of a true
union of souls it is useless to say 'what God has joined let no man
put asunder;' for he cannot any more than he can annul any other of
his great laws.

"My father's reprimands and threatenings could not, therefore,

dissolve that bond which united me to Evelina, and she to me. So, as
soon as I left his room, I sought her presence. I told her all, and
she wept to think of what she had caused, as she said. But I tried
to convince her, and succeeded in doing so finally, that it was not
she who had caused it. She had not made her soul or its attributes.
God had made them, and if they were in unison with mine, or if they
had attractions that drew my. soul to hers, the law under which they
came together and would not be separated was God's law, and we could
not escape it.

"That night we walked down by the river's side, and we talked of

those great principles that govern us. We studied, there in the
clear moonlight, God's works, and I asked her whether in loving the
beautiful and the good we did not love God.

"Her mind opened a bright effulgence of light to my spirit. 'Yes,'

said she, 'it is even so. God is a spirit. He fills immensity,--and
if so, then he imbues this little flower with his own life, for he
is the life of all things. It is as he made it, and as we love it we
love him. When we love a being for his goodness, we love God; for
that goodness is of God."

"'Yes,' I remarked; 'I see it is so. I do not love you as a material

being. It is not your flesh and bones merely that I love, but it is
the goodness dwelling in you. As that goodness is more abundant in
you than in others, in like degree does God dwell in you more than
in them. If, therefore, I love you more than I love them, I love God
more than I should did my supreme love find its highest object in
them. In loving you, therefore, I love God so far as you possess the
characteristics by which we personify that being. It is not wrong,
therefore, to love you or the flower; for goodness exists in one,
and beauty in the other, and they both are of God, and in loving
them we love God.'

"We parted at a late hour. I went with her to the door of the little
cottage in which she dwelt with her father. Her mother had died, as
they call it, long years before; and, as I kissed her, and pressed
her hand and bade her good-by, I felt more strongly than ever a
determination to bear any privation, endure any suffering, for her
sake.

"I reached my home. I found the doors fastened and all quiet. The
moon shone very clear, and it was nearly as light as at noon-day. I
tried the windows, and fortunately found one of them unfastened. I
raised it very carefully, and crept in, and up to my room. The next
morning at breakfast my father spoke not a word, but I knew by his
manner that he was aware of my disregard of his command, and I
thought that all that prevented him from talking to me was a want of
language strong enough to express the passionate feelings that ran
riot in his soul.

"I judged rightly. For at night his passion found vent in words, and
such a copious torrent of abuse that I shuddered. Nevertheless, I
yielded not one position of my heart, and was conscious that I had a
strength of purpose that would ever defend the right, and could not
be swayed by mere words.

"There was no limit to my father's abuse when it became known to a

few of his friends that I had been seen in company with the
collier's daughter. I endured all, and was willing to endure more.
He seemed to have a peculiar dislike of Evelina's father, as also to
her. This I could not account for.

"At length I became of age, and on my birthday my father called me

to him, and, in his usual stern, uncompromising way, asked me if I
persisted in paying attention to Evelina. I answered promptly that I
did. I had had so many conflicts that I had lost much of my
timidity, and I now defined my position clear, and maintained it
resolutely.

"'Then leave my house at once!' said my father. 'I throw you from me
as I would a reptile from my clothes; and go, go with my curse upon
you! Take your penniless girl, and build yourself a name if you can;
for you have lost the one you might have held with honor to yourself
and to me. I had chosen for you a wife, a rich and fashionable lady,
the daughter of a nobleman, and one of whom to be proud; but you
have thought best to be your own judge in such matters, and you made
a fool of yourself. But you shall not stamp my family with such
folly, or wed its name to dishonor.'

"I endeavored to reply; but he would hear no word from my lips. He

sprang from his seat, walked the room in the greatest rage, and
whenever I opened my mouth to speak would shout, 'Stop your noise,
you ungrateful, heartless wretch!'

"He was determined to carry out his threat. That night he locked me
out of the house, and took special pains to make the windows fast.
In the papers of the next day he advertised me as disinherited and
cast off, and warned the world against me. He also circulated false
reports respecting me, and spared neither money nor effort to injure
me. He prejudiced my employers, so that they at once discharged me,
without a moment's warning. And all this from a father! How often I
thought of that loving, sympathizing mother! How often I recognized
her presence in my silent hours of thought! Dear, sainted friend!
she was with me often, unseen but not unfelt.

"Evelina faltered not. She bore all the opprobrium of false friends
with a brave heart, and rested on my promises as the dove rests its
weary head beneath its downy wing. Her father had confidence in me.

"It was astonishing how changed all things were. The day previous, I
was the son of a wealthy and influential man. I was respected,
apparently, by all. Very many professed a friendship for me, and
told me how much they valued my company. Young ladies politely
recognized me as I passed through the streets; and old ladies
singled me out as an example for their sons to follow. But on that
day no one knew me. Not one of those who had professed such
friendship for me came and took me by the hand when I needed their
friendly grasp the most! Young ladies, when we met, cast their
glances on the earth, on the sky, anywhere but on me. Old ladies
scandalized me, and warned the objects of their paternal
consideration against a course like mine.

"And why all this? It was because I loved Evelina,--a poor man's only
child!"

CHAPTER III.

Egbert's health seemed to improve now that he was in more

comfortable quarters, and had sympathizing friends to whom he could
narrate the story of his life. In the course of a few days he rode
out a short distance. After a rest of a week, during which his
strength had increased, he continued his narrative, in which we had
become deeply interested.

"I found a home at the cottage of Evelina. We made arrangements to

be married according to law, and in due time I applied to the
minister of the town to perform the ceremonies. I was surprised when
he refused; yet I well knew what inducements led him to act thus. My
father was the leading man in his church. The minister looked to him
as one of the chief pillars of support to his society, and
consequently to his means of livelihood. There was no one in the
town upon whom the public eye, religious or political, rested with
more hope than upon my father. He exhorted in the meetings with an
earnestness worthy of the most devoted follower of Cromwell; and was
as strict and rigid in the performance of his public religious
duties as the most precise Puritan of the old school could wish. Did
the chapel need repairs, my father was consulted. Was it proposed to
make a donation to the pastor, my father was expected to head the
list with a large subscription, and he did. Was it strange, then,
that he gave such a decided refusal to my simple request, knowing,
as he did, and everybody did, my circumstances? It seems not.
Perhaps it was foolish for me to ask a favor of such a man; but I
did, and he had an opportunity of exhibiting his allegiance to
public opinion, and his disregard of the voice within, that must
have commanded him to do right, and to adhere to truth and justice
in the face of all opposition.

"It was soon noised abroad that I had endeavored to get married and
had failed. There was great rejoicing, and one old lady took the
trouble to send her man-servant to me with the message that she was
glad to know that her good pastor had indignantly refused to place
his seal on my bond of iniquity.

"The dark cloud that all this time overshadowed my path rested also
on the path of Evelina's father. This was all that troubled me. He,
good man, had more true religion in his soul than the pastor and all
the people in theirs; yet he was scorned and ill-treated. All this
was not new to him. He had lived in that town four-and-forty years,
and had always been frowned upon by the boasting descendants of
proud families, and had received but little good from their hands.
The church looked upon him as a poor, incorrigible sinner. No one
spoke to him, unless it was to ask him to perform some hard job. It
was not strange that, judging from the works of the people who
called themselves Christians, he had a dislike to their forms. He
chose a living Christianity; and theirs, with all its rites, with
all its pretensions, with all its heralded faith, was but a mockery
to him. It was but a shadow of a substantial reality. He chose the
substance; he rejected the shadow, and men called him 'infidel' who
had not a tithe of vital religion in their own souls, while his was
filled to repletion with that heavenly boon. For a time the war of
persecution raged without, and slander and base innuendoes the
weapons were employed against us. But within all was peace and
quiet, and our home was indeed a heaven,--for we judged that heaven
is no locality, no ideal country staked off so many leagues this
way, and so many that; but that it is in our own souls, and we could
have our heaven here as well as beyond the grave. We thought Christ
meant so when he said 'the kingdom of heaven is within you'! We
pitied those who were always saying that when they reached heaven
there would be an end of all sorrow, and wished they could see as we
did that heaven was to reach them, not they to reach it. We feared
that the saying of Pope, 'Man never is, but always to be, blest,'
might prove true of them, and that even when they had passed the
boundary which they fancied divided them from heaven, they would yet
be looking on to so the future state for the anticipated bliss.

"What cared we, in our home, for the jibes and sneers and falsehoods
without? Those who are conscious of being in the right have no fear
of the goal to which their feet are tending. I heard from my father
often, but never met him. By some means he always evaded me. That
which troubled him most was the calmness with which I received the
results of his course towards me. He knew that I was happy and
contented. This was what troubled him. Had I manifested a great
sorrow and writhing beneath what he deemed troubles, he would have
greatly rejoiced, and so would all his friends. I had accumulated a
small property, and was prospering, notwithstanding the efforts of
many to embarrass me. A few began to see that I was not so bad as I
had been represented to be, and they began to sympathize with me.
This aroused my father's anger afresh. We had been married by a
magistrate of another town, and the clouds above our outside or
temporary affairs seemed breaking away, when an event occurred that
frustrated all our plans.

"One evening I heard the cry of 'fire,' and, on attempting to go

out, I found the entry of the house filled with a dense smoke. The
smoke poured into the room in which Evelina and her father were
seated. I rushed to the window, dashed it out, and, having seen my
wife and her father safely deposited without, secured what of the
property I could. In a few moments the cottage was enveloped in
flames, and it was not long before no vestige of our happy home
remained, except the smoking embers and a heap of ashes. We were
now, indeed, poor in gold and lands; but it seemed to each of us
that what had been taken from our purse had been put in our hearts,
for we loved each other more than ever before, if such a love were
possible; and, though we received but little sympathy from without,
we had a fund of sympathy within, that made us forget our seeming
sorrows, and rejoice in bliss unspeakable.

"It was reported that I had fired the cottage. I well knew with whom
this charge originated, and I had good reasons for believing that
the match that fired our house came from the same source.

"Our condition was such that we concluded to leave the place where
so much had been endured, and those who had strewn our path with
what they intended for thorns and brambles.

"We left. We journeyed to Liverpool, and engaged a passage in a New

York packet for the United States. It was a beautiful morning when
we set sail, and everything seemed reviving in the possessing of
life. Our ship's flags looked like smiling guardians as they
fluttered above us, and all on board the 'White Wing' were happy.
There were about three hundred passengers. There were old and young;
some travelling on business, some for a place they might call their
home, some for pleasure, and a few for the improvement of their
health. There were entire families, and, in some cases, those of
three generations. How varied were the hopes that filled their
souls! how different the objects that led them forth over the deep
and trackless sea, exposing themselves to countless perils!

"Evelina and myself mused thus as we sat on the deck at twilight of

the first day out, and watched the movements, and listened to the
various expressions that fell from the lips of the crowded
passengers.

"She always had a bright gleam of religious, philosophical thought,

with which to illumine every hour of our existence, and radiate,
with heavenly joy, our every conversation. 'There are not more
dangers here than on land,' said she; 'to be true to our inner
consciousness, we must say that wherever we are we are exposed to
peril, and wherever we are we are protected from evil. I have known
a man to cross the ocean a hundred times, and fall at last at his
own door, and by it become maimed for life. There is no such a thing
as an accident. Every result has a legitimate cause. Everything acts
in obedience to undeviating laws of God. We complain when we fall,
but the same law that causes us to fall guides planets in their
course, and regulates every motion of every object. It is only when
we disobey these laws that evil comes, and every transgression
receives its own penalty. It is impossible that it should be
otherwise.'

"We soon became acquainted with a number of the passengers, and

passed very many pleasant and profitable hours together. Evelina was
the light of every circle, and the days flew by on rapid wings. The
ship had made a rapid passage, and we were fast nearing our destined
haven.

"One Sabbath evening a storm commenced. The wind blew a hurricane.

Everything on deck was lashed, and the sea rolled and pitched our
vessel about as though it had been but a feather on its surface. We
had all day expected the storm, and were prepared for it. As night
advanced the storm increased. The rain fell in torrents, and the
darkness was most intense. After a while, the lightning came, and
the thunder reverberated with terrific peals over us. There were
shrieks and wailings aboard our vessel, and many a brave heart
quailed beneath the terror upon us.

"I cared not for myself. My chief concern was for my dear wife and
her father. We kept our state-room for a long time, but at length
deemed it prudent to leave it. As we did so, we heard an awful
crash, and many a shriek and hurried prayer. I myself began to fear,
as the mast and flying rigging went by us; but Evelina, even in such
an hour, had words to cheer us all. She seemed, indeed, more of
heaven than earth; and I cared not for my fate, provided we both met
the same.

"The captain ordered the boats to be got in readiness, and it was

quickly done. Soon another crash, and another mast fell, bearing to
the raging abyss of waters another company of helpless men, women
and children.

"I clasped my wife in my arms, and, amid the wreck and frantic crowd
of passengers, sprang to a boat. I placed Evelina in it, and was
just about to assist her father to the same boat, when a large wave
dashed over the ship and bore me alone over the wide waters. I
remembered no more until I opened my eyes, and the sun was shining
brightly all around me, and a young man was bathing my head, and
brushing back my wet hair, while some were standing by expressing
great joy.

"I soon became conscious of my situation, and I asked for Evelina.

What a sadness filled my soul when I was told she was not
there,--that they had not heard of any such person! Human language is
weak with which to express the sorrow I then felt. Through all my
varied life I had had nothing that so crushed my spirit, and filled
it with a sense of loneliness which it is impossible to describe. I
ascertained that I was on board of a vessel bound to Boston; that I,
was found holding on a raft, almost insensible when found, and quite
so a few moments afterwards. For a long time no one expected that I
would recover my consciousness, but the constant efforts of the
passengers and crew were finally crowned with success, and I opened
my eyes.

"I gave all the information I could respecting the fate of the
vessel, but thoughts of my wife, and surmisings as to her fate and
that of her father, often choked my utterance, and my words gave way
for my tears.

"The next morning I was delirious, with a fever. My anxiety for my

wife, and the exposure I had suffered, brought my body and mind into
a very critical state. For several days I talked wildly. At the
close of the fifth, I became sane in mind. I was yet quite ill. That
night the ship entered Boston harbor. It anchored in the stream, and
the next morning it hauled up to a wharf."

CHAPTER IV.

"I was a perfect stranger. The captain was attentive to my wants,

and made me as comfortable as he could. You will remember how neat
and quiet all appeared when, with my friend Jenks, you called on me.
All of the passengers took an interest in my welfare, and made up a
purse for me; but they could not remain long with me. They had been
long absent from home, and were desirous of seeing their families
and friends, or else they had business in this or some other place.
One of them introduced my friend Jenks to me; and, O, sir, he has
been, indeed, a good friend to one having so few claims on his
attention. He told me one night of you, and, agreeable to his
promise, he brought you to the cabin of the vessel. The rest you
know."

Egbert had regained his strength to a great degree, and gave me the
close of his narrative while we were having a pleasant drive through
the country. A month had passed since we first met, and though many
of the passengers had been heard from, the names of Evelina and her
father had not been reported.

When we reached our home, from our afternoon's drive, I took up an

evening paper, and the first paragraph I read was the following:

"MORE FROM THE WHITE WING.-The Orion, which arrived at this port
this morning, brought fifteen passengers, rescued from the boats of
the 'White Wing.' Among the names mentioned in the above notice were
these: "Mrs. Evelina Lawrence and her father, of England;" and, at
the conclusion, was the following item:

"The case of Mrs. Lawrence and her father is one of those that
loudly call for a bestowal of public sympathy and aid in her behalf.
She has lost a beloved husband,--one who, judging from the heavy
sorrow that oppresses her, and the sighs and tears that break her
recital of the events of their last hours together, was bound with
the closest bonds of soul affinity to her own spirit. They must have
been one, and are, indeed, one now, though to mortal eyes separated.
We commend her to the kind charities of those who would follow the
golden rule of doing unto others as they, in like circumstances,
would have others do unto them."

Egbert noticed my interest in that which I was reading; indeed, it

would have been strange if he had not; for I could not suppress my
joy, and it found expression in an occasional exclamation.

At length, I handed him the paper.

"My God! my wife!" he exclaimed, and he actually danced with joy and
thankfulness. He would have rushed into the street, and by sudden
exposure have caused a relapse of disease, had not I taken him by
the hand, and forcibly, for a few moments, restrained him. So
excessive was his happiness that, for a short time, he was delirious
with joy. He laughed and wept by turns: at one moment extending
his arms, and folding them as if clasping a beloved form; the next,
trembling as if in some fearful danger. But this did not long
continue. He soon became calm and rational, and we called a carriage
for the purpose of going to the vessel on board of which he expected
to greet his wife and her father.

My neighbor Jenks accompanied us, and, as we rode hastily along, my

mind reverted to the night when first I met Egbert. That eventful
evening came more vividly to mind as we found ourselves on the same
wharf, and the carriage door was opened, and we alighted on nearly
the same spot that we did at that time.

Egbert leaped from the carriage, and at one bound was on the
vessel's deck. He flew to the cabin, and in a moment I heard the
loud exclamations on either side, "My Evelina!" "My Egbert!" Mr.
Jenks and myself followed below. An old gentleman met us, and,
though a stranger, he grasped a hand of ours in each of his, and
wept with joy as he bade us welcome. The cabin was witness of a
scene which a painter well might covet for a study. In close embrace
Egbert and Evelina mingled joys that seldom are known on earth. The
old man held our hands, his face raised, eyes turned upward, while
tears of happiness, such as he had never before known, coursed down
his features. The officers of the ship came hurrying in, and the
crew darkened the gangway with their presence. What a joyous time
was that! The evening was passed in recounting the adventures of
each; and even I had something to add to the general recital. It
appeared that the boat in which Egbert had placed his charge was
safely cleared of the wreck; and, after being floated about two
days, was met by an English ship bound to London. They, together
with about twenty others who were in the boat, were soon comfortably
cared for. At the expiration of a few weeks, they reached London,
and were there placed on board a vessel bound to Boston, at which
place they in due season arrived. The grief of Mrs. L. during all
this time I will not attempt to describe. The mind of my reader can
better depict it than I can with pen. Hope buoyed her up. And,
though she had seen him swept from her side into the waters where
waves towered up to the skies and sank again many fathoms below, yet
she did hope she might see him again on earth.

In the silent hour of night, as she lay and mused of those things,
she thought she could hear a sweet voice whispering in her ear,
"Berty lives, and you will meet him once again." And, as if in
response to the voice, she said in her own mind, "I know he lives;
but it may be in that bright world where, unencumbered with these
mortal frames, we roam amid ever-enduring scenes." The voice again
said, "On earth, on earth."

But now they had met. It was no mere vision now, and the truth
flashed upon her mind that that voice she had heard and thought a
dream was not all a dream. And then she mused on as she was wont to
do, and, after relating to us the incident, she said, "May it not be
that much of our life that we have thought passed in dreamland, and
therefore among unreal things, has been spent with actual
existences? For what is an 'unreal thing'? It would not be a 'thing'
had it no existence; and what is the 'it' that we speak of? Can we
not then conclude that there is nothing but what is and must have an
existence, though not so tangible to our senses as to enable us to
handle it or see it? What we call 'imagination' may be, after all,
more real than the hard stones beneath our feet-less indestructible
than they."

Thus she spake, and her theory seemed very plausible to me, though
my friend Jenks, who was an exceedingly precise, matter-of-fact man,
could not see any foundation for the theory.

It was a late hour when Mr. Jenks and myself passed to our homes.
The next day Evelina and her father were coseyly quartered at the
house in which Egbert had boarded.

In the course of a a few weeks they arranged to go to the west, and

locate in a flourishing town on the banks of the Ohio, not many
miles above Cincinnati.

Mr. Jenks and myself accompanied them to the cars; and, amid our
best wishes for their success, and their countless expressions of
gratitude to us, the train started, and in a few moments the
Disinherited was going to an inheritance which God had provided, and
which lay in rich profusion awaiting their possession.

Our hearts went with them. We could truly say they were worthy God's
blessing; yet we had not need ask him to bestow it upon them; for
their very existence was a proof that he gave it to them.

THE SEASONS ALL ARE BEAUTIFUL.

THE seasons all are beautiful,

There is not one that's sad,--
Not one that does not give to thee
A thought to make thee glad.
I have heard a mournful cadence
 Fall on my listening ear,--
'T was some one whispering, mournfully,
"The Autumn days are here."
But Autumn is not sorrowful,--
O, full of joy is it;
I love at twilight hour to watch
The shadows as they flit,--
The shadows of the falling leaves,
Upon their forest bed,
And hear the rustling music tones
Beneath the maiden's tread.
The falling leaf! Say, what has it
To sadden human thought?
For are not all its hours of life
With dancing beauty fraught?
And, having danced and sang its joy,
It seeketh now its rest,--
Is there a better place for it
Than on its parent's breast?
Ye think it dies. So they of old
Thought of the soul of man.
But, ah, ye know not all its course
Since first its life began,
And ye know not what future waits,
Or what essential part
That fallen leaf has yet to fill,
In God's great work of art.
Count years and years, then multiply
The whole till ages crowd
Upon your mind, and even then
Ye shall not see its shroud.
But ye may see,--if look you can
Upon that fallen leaf,--
A higher life for it than now
The life you deem so brief.
And so shall we to higher life
And purer joys ascend;
And, passing on, and on, and on,
Be further from our end.
This is the truth that Autumn brings,--
Is aught of sorrow here?
If not, then deem it beautiful,
Keep back the intrusive tear.
Spring surely you'll call beautiful,
With its early buds and flowers,
Its bubbling brooks, its gushing streams,
And gentle twilight hours.
And Summer, that is beautiful,
With fragrance on each breeze,
And myriad warblers that give
Free concerts 'mong the trees.
I've told you of the Autumn days,
Ye cannot call them sad,
With such a lesson as they teach,
To make the spirit glad.
And Winter comes; how clear and cold,
In dazzling brilliance drest!-
Say, is not Winter beautiful,
With jewels on his crest?
 Thus are all seasons beautiful;
They all have joy for thee,
And gladness for each living soul
Comes from them full and free.

SPRING.

IT is early spring-time. The winter has passed with reluctant step,

and even now the traces of its footsteps are discernible on every
side. At noon of these bright days the sun looks down smilingly upon
the soil it seeks to bless with its cheerful, cheering rays. The
tiny grass-blades peep out, and stretch forth their graceful forms,
as if to thank the unknown source from which their enjoyments
spring. "Unknown," I said. Is it "fancy" that makes my soul withdraw
that word, and suggest that it may be that even that blade of grass
recognizes the hand that ministers to all its wants? I think not. I
think that what we term "fancy" and "imagination" are the most real
and enduring portions of existence. They are of that immortal part
that will live after crumbling column and the adamantine foundations
of earth have passed away, and lost their present identity in
countless forms of a higher existence. Are not all the forces of
nature unseen, yet are they not real? Most assuredly they are. But I
am talking of spring. I hinted at winter's tardy withdrawal. Look
you how that little pile of snow hides itself in yonder shady
nook,--right there where the sun's rays never come; right there, as
if ashamed, like a man out of place,--pity that it lingers. Here and
there, at the side of the brook, a little ice is waiting to be
dissolved, that it may bound away, bright and sparkling, over the
glistening pebbles.

The farmer opens his barn doors that the warm, fresh breeze may
ramble amid its rafters. The cattle snuff the refreshing winds, that
bear tidings of green fields. The housewife opens door and windows,
and begins to live more without than within.

Let us to the woods. How the old leaves rustle beneath our tread!
Winter bides his cold, wet hand underneath these leaves and
occasionally we feel his chilling touch as we pass along. But from
above the pleasant sunshine comes trickling down between the
branches, and the warm south wind blows cheeringly among the trees.
Didst thou not hear yon swallow sing, Chirp, chirp?--In every note he
seemed to say, "'T is spring, 't is spring."

Yes, 't is spring; bright, glorious season, when nature awakes to

new life and forest-concerts begin.

Up with the window, throw open the closed shutter, let the fresh air
in, and let the housed captive breathe the invigorating elixir of
life; better by far than all your pills and cordials, and more
strengthening than all the poor-man's plasters that have been or
ever will be spread.

The bale and hearty youth, whose clear and boisterous laugh did the
old man good, as he heard it ring forth on the clear air of a
winter's night, has become satiated with the pleasures of
sleigh-rides and merry frolics, and welcomes the spring-time of year
as a man greeteth the return of an old friend from a long journey.
How his bright eye flashes with the joyous soul within him, as he
treads the earth, and beholds the trees put forth their buds, and
hears the warblings of the birds once again, where a few weeks since
winter brooded in silence!

In town and country, the coming of spring changes the general

appearance of affairs. Not early nature, but men change. There is no
longer the cold and frigid countenance. Men do not walk with quick
and measured tread, but pass carelessly, easily along, as though it
was a luxury and not a task to walk. Children are seen in little
companies, plucking the flowers and forcing the buds from their
stems, as though to punish them for their tardiness.

The very beasts of burden and of the field partake of the general
joy; as Thomson says, "Nor undelighted by the boundless spring Are
the broad monsters of the foaming deep From the deep ooze and, gelid
cavern roused, They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy."

In the town storekeepers obtain fresh supplies of goods; the

mechanic contracts new jobs; the merchant repairs his vessel, and
sends it forth, deeply freighted with the productions of our own
clime, to far distant, lands; and the people generally brush up, and
have the appearance of being a number of years younger than they
were a month since.

In the country, the farmer is full of work. The ploughs are brought
forth from their winter quarters, the earth is opened, that the warm
sun and refreshing rains may prepare it for use; old fences are
repaired, and new ones made; the housewife brushes up inside and
out, and with the aid of the whitewash every old fence and shed is
made clean and pleasing to the eye.

Welcome spring, a hearty welcome to thee! Touch the cheek of the

maiden, and make it as bright as the rose; with thy fresh air give
health to the sick and joy to the downcast. Thou bringest with thee
sweet-smelling flowers, and the birds of the woods carol forth thy
welcome.

A TEXT FOR A LIFETIME.

ONE word for humanity. One word for those who dwell in want around
us. O, ye who know not what it is to hunger, and have naught to meet
your desire; ye who never are cold, with naught to warm your chilled
blood, forget not those who endure all these things. They are your
brethren. They are of the same family as yourself, and have a claim'
upon your love, your sympathy, your kindness.

Live not for yourselves. The world needs to learn this lesson.
Mankind have to learn that only as they bless others are they
themselves blest. It was the fine thought of the good Indian,
Wah-pan-nah, that man should not pile up his dollars,--they may fall
down and crush him,--but spread them out.

"There be dark spot on you brother's path,--go lay dollar there and
make it bright," said he.

And since that suggestion came we have thought it over and over, and
have found it a text for a lifetime of goodness. Go place the bright
dollar in the poor man's hand, and the good you do will be reflected
in rays of gratitude from a smiling face, and fall on you like the
warm sunshine, to cheer and refresh and strengthen your own soul.

There are in this world too many dollars "piled up," and on the
surface we see but the brightness of one. Were these all spread out,
what a wide field of radiant beauty would greet our vision! Instead
of being a useless encumbrance, a care, a constant source of
perplexity to one man, this wealth would make every man comfortable
and happy. It would perform its legitimate work, were it not chained
by avarice,--that canker-worm that destroys the fairest portions of
our social system.

And there is a joy in doing good, and in dispensing the bounties

with which we are blest, that hath no equal in the household of man.
To know that we have fed the hungry, clothed the naked, wiped away
one tear, bathed in the sunlight of hope one desponding spirit,
gives to us a happiness that hoarded wealth, though broad as earth
and high as heaven, cannot impart.

This is the true wealth. This the wealth that rust cannot corrupt.
There is no other real wealth in the universe. Gold and silver,
houses and lands, are not wealth to the longing, aspiring soul of
man. The joy of the spirit, which is the reward of a good deed,
comes a gift from God, a treasure worthy of being garnered into the
storehouse of an immortal being.

There was one spot on earth where joy reigned. It was not in marble
palace; but in a low cot, beneath a roof of thatch.

There was an indwelling sense of duty done; a feeling somewhat akin

to that which we might suppose angels to feel, when a poor,
earth-wearied traveller is relieved by them.

That was a subject fit for a Raphael's pencil, as she, of form and
feature more angelic than human, sat beside that cottage door, and
her mild blue eye gazed steadfastly up to heaven, and the light of
the moon disclosed to mortal view her calm and beautiful features.

Two hours previous, over a sick and languishing child a mother bowed
with maternal fondness. She pressed her lips to his chilled
forehead, and wiped the cold sweat from his aching brow.

"Be patient, my child," said she; "God will provide." And why did
she bid him "be patient"? None could have been more so; for through
the long hours of that long summer day he had lain there, suffered
and endured all; yet not one sigh had arisen from his breast, not
one complaint had passed his parched lips.

"I know it," said he. And the mother kissed him again, and again
said,

"God will provide."

Mother and son! the one sick, the other crushed down with poverty
and sorrow. Yet in this her hour of adversity her trust in the God
of her fathers wavered not; she firmly relied on Him for support,
whom she had never found forgetful of her. The widow and the
fatherless were in that low tenement, and above was the God who had
promised to protect them.

Again she whispered in the lad's ear, "God will provide."

The light of that day's sun had not rested upon food in that
dwelling. Heavily the hours passed by. Each seemed longer than that
which had preceded it.

A rap at the door was heard. She arose and hastened to it. No person
was in sight; but in the moon's bright rays stood a basket, on which
lay a card, stating that it and its contents were for her and her
child, and that on the morrow a nurse and every comfort they might
want would be provided.

She bowed herself beside it, and thanked God for the gift. Then with
a joyful heart she carried it within, and her child's eye sparkled
as he heard the glad news, that He who watcheth the sparrows had not
forgotten them.

Let us return now to that thatched cottage. She, whose mild eye
gazeth up to heaven, whilst passing the door of the famishing mother
and child an hour previous, had heard the words with which that
mother had encouraged her dying son.

With speed the maiden hastened to her home, and from her own limited
store carried forth that basket, and heaven-like bestowed the gift
unseen and unknown, save by Him who seeth and who rewardeth. The
deed of mercy accomplished, she hastened to her home; and now, as
she looks upward, how her eye beams with joy, and her heart breaks
forth in songs of gratitude to Him who made her the instrument of so
much good!

Gold, with all its power, cannot bring joy unless dealt forth with a
willing heart like hers. The king in his palace, whose sceptre's
sway extends over vast dominions, hath no pleasures capable of
rivalling that which, by an act of charity, was brought to the soul
of that young cottage girl.

Reader, whatever your condition, you can possess a joy like hers. If
you have not what men call wealth, with which to help the weak and
desponding, you have a smile of sympathy, a look of kindness, a word
of love. Give those, and you shall know what a blessed thing is
Charity.
NOW CLOSE THE BOOK.

NOW close the book. Each page hath done its part,
Each thought hath left its impress on the heart.
O, may it be that naught hath here been traced
That after years may wish to have effaced!
O, may it be Humanity hath won
Some slight bestowment by the task now done!
If struggling Right hath found one cheering word,
If Hope hath in desponding heart been stirred,
If Sorrow hath from one lone soul been driven
By one kind word of Sympathy here given,
Then in my soul a living joy shall dwell,
Brighter than art can paint or language tell.
Yes, close the book: the story and the song
Have each been said, and sung. I see the throng
Of gentle ministrants who've led my pen
Withdraw their aid. I hear the word, Amen.
And now to you, who have been with me through
The "Town and Country," I must bid adieu.
The Project Gutenberg Etext of Town and Country, or, Life at Home and Abroad
by John S. Adams
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by John S. Adams